College Rescue
by CodependentLiza
Summary: Shy and emotionally-overwhelmed Bella is discovered by kind and gentle, while also self-assured and controlling, Edward. He's studying medicine and chaperoning his cousin Alice, away from home at college, for his religiously-conservative aunt and uncle. Bella is the college student chosen to share Alice's apartment, but she won't be Alice's roomie for long if Edward gets his way.AH
1. Chapter 1

_First off, if you are not turned on by unapologetically dominant Edward rescuing a helpless Bella, leave now before you vomit or get your retinas singed. I cannot be responsible for the unpleasant gagging noises you will make as this story progresses. Thank you._

_Secondly, I'm putting this story up next to "Sharks" because I want to illustrate how "dominance" is not just the purview of sexually profligate, whip-bearing men (or women) in black leather. If you think of it conceptually as a Venn diagram, dominance is a very large (no naughty jokes, now) circle with BDSM being a smaller (but still sizable) circle that overlaps, but maybe not as much as you might think. Yes, there are truly dominant "Doms" and "Dommes" who like controlling every aspect of their submissives' lives, but -and I have this on very good authority, though not, I admit, from real-life experience, thank goodness, since it would have been devastating-there are plenty of BDSM practitioners who enjoy bossing sexual partners around but don't want any responsibility for them outside the act of sex. That's fine for people who find that spiritually and physically satisfying, but for emotionally-vulnerable people looking more for caretaking than an exciting sex life, it would/could be disastrous. _

_So, to make the exceedingly important point that BDSM reality is not the nirvana it may sometimes seem to those terrified of living and willing to do whatever they're told as long as they get some affection in return, I give you...oops, to make that point, I'd have to write a really depressing story about one of my precious passive Bellas getting into a bad BDSM situation. I have one that's a close call, and maybe I'll post that too someday. _

_I guess what I'm doing instead is offering an example of how needy Bella can-conceivably-be taken care of and efficiently-handed happiness by somebody other than a bossy sex powerhouse. This is also convenient because I suspect any lemons off my tree would be very...silly. So, I am relieved to give you: conservative Christian Edward. _

_Because I have to be able to fall in love with the Edwards I write, however, this one happens to be a politically-liberal conservative Christian. Yes, I know I have the common romance tendency to write about completely mythological men, although I'll bet there are some out there. That is not, however, a recommendation to go church-hopping in the hopes of scaring one up. On the other hand, there are worse ideas for searching out a dominant life partner, as previously discussed in my "Sharks" author note rant._

_Finally, sorry for the lame title. I'm particularly bad with titles, probably because they require brevity. If you've got a better idea, feel free to message me. And if anyone out there thinks they could tolerate pre-reading for me, (and is a legal adult, because I don't want to corrupt any minors), please let me know. Thank you! xo (and yes, theoretically I'd hug any of you, whoever you are, although I'll admit the kisses are more for effect, unless we're talking quick cheek pecks or you've just told me where to locate a really-satisfying stash of new Edward/Bella emotion porn) liza_

_**Disclaimer: As always, the Twilight characters, locations and plot elements are the intellectual property of the lovely Stephenie Meyer, whose talent is matched by her generosity in letting us use them this way. Blessings on you, SM! And the rest? It's all my fault. :)**_

It was just after 9 p.m. when there was a knocking on the door of the apartment I was sharing with Alice Cullen. I was startled by the noise, not just because I'd been immersed in the calculus homework spread out on the kitchen table in front of me, but also because we lived in a secure building with a locked front door; since we didn't buzz anyone in, it had to be a neighbor. I turned to ask Alice who she thought it might be, as she'd been in the kitchen too all night, arranging cabinets after unpacking more of the seemingly-endless boxes she'd brought with her from home. I hadn't even known Alice more than four months, and had been living with her just over a week; but already I was certain about two things: her family was rich, and she was kind. It was a fortunate combination.

Alice wasn't perched on the countertop anymore though when I turned to talk to her. She was already waltzing out of the kitchen, towards the door to answer it.

I felt anxiety settle in my stomach at the unexpected idea of meeting a stranger this time of night. Besides, I was in my pajamas, and not at all ready for polite company. Alice, however, didn't seem the least bit hesitant to answer the door, and had her hand reached out towards the doorknob before I managed to breathe out, "Who's that?"

"This is just my cousin, checking up on me," Alice said a little apologetically over her shoulder to me as she unlocked the door, then opened it. An incredibly handsome man was standing in the doorway, looking down – clearly expecting petite Alice to be letting him in.

"I didn't hear the chain moving, Allie," he said sternly as he walked over the threshold. "Why didn't you have it on?"

"Because I knew you were coming over in a couple hours, Mr. Bossy Pants," Alice replied tartly, dancing back towards the kitchen with the stranger—the very handsome… No, the very, _very_ handsome stranger in her wake. The man followed her after first closing and locking the door behind him.

"How's the unpacking coming?" he asked her, more warmly, then followed up immediately with, "And it's my job to keep track of you, Mary Alice Cullen, so next time I expect to hear the chain lock being removed, you understand me?"

Alice just stuck her tongue out at him, which kind of horrified me seeing how much I dislike conflict and am afraid of boys—I mean, men—and turned back to the kitchen. Her gaze fell on my terror-stricken face I'm sure, because the next second she said with surprising enthusiasm, "Oh! Edward, you have to meet Bella!"

I had already been watching the whole exchange in a bit of shock, not knowing what to make of it and feeling unaccountably nervous, and overwhelmed. Which was nothing compared to the feelings when this man turned and looked at me for the first time. Blushing like mad, I broke his gaze immediately and dropped my head to study my calculus book intently, blinking back the tears that rose to my eyes for some inexplicable reason.

I barely heard Alice over the buzzing in my brain as she proceeded with the introductions, but I heard that voice as it addressed itself to me, saying, "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Bella; I'm Edward, this rude young lady's cousin, and chaperone. I'm afraid you'll be seeing a lot of me this semester, unless" and here he turned away from me in order to send a warning glance in Alice's direction, "I have to send her home early for insubordination."

The sternness in his tone at the end made me shiver, but Alice merely stuck her tongue out again, then hopped back up on the counter and returned to organizing cabinets. "Don't mind him, Bella; he's all bark and no bite. He'd never rat me out to my parents."

"Rat you out for what?" I couldn't help asking curiously, my brain finally kicking in again.

"Ah, that's the ten-thousand dollar question, Miss Bella," Alice's cousin—Edward—said, with humor in his voice. "I'm counting on you to be my informant; let me know when she's up to something she shouldn't be."

Before I had a chance to think, my mouth blurted out, "Oh, you mean Jasper."

There was a clatter as Alice dropped a plate on the countertop, before crying out "Bella!" in consternation, paired with a chuckle from her cousin.

I was mortified, and immediately started apologizing profusely to Alice. "Alice, I'm so sorry; I didn't think! I promise I won't—"

I was cut off in my desperate pleading by her cousin, who walked closer to me and said consolingly, "Now don't you go apologizing for telling the truth, sweetheart. Alice has only herself to blame if she does something... ill-advised."

Then, mercifully pausing in his approach towards me, he turned towards Alice, leaned against the refrigerator and said, "As it so happens, I already know about this Jasper, and have had some words with him after his visit here Friday night."

"Edward! You didn't!" Alice whispered, horrified.

"Oh, but I did," Edward confirmed, gleefully. "And from now on any… _assignation_ the two of you have after daylight hours will take place in my apartment, under my watchful eye, and with my prior approval."

Edward let that hang in the air for a moment. Then he stepped away from the fridge towards Alice, picked up the plate that had fallen, handed it to her and said in a conciliatory tone, "He has my cell number, and I expect him to be using it, so don't be too upset Alice—he took his upbraiding like a man, and I found I rather liked him. Although not as much as I suspect he likes you." Edward grinned at Alice as she finally snatched the plate away from him, madly setting it down with a crash on the stack. I watched transfixed as Edward grinned, shaking his head, and started moving away.

The next instant, he stopped as if suddenly remembering something, turned on his heels and walked over to Alice, managing still to seem as if he was towering over her even with her perched on the counter. With his hands on his hips he stared her down—for Alice was looking not just mad, but rebellious—and said, "But if you try to pull one over on me again, I _will_ take you home to Uncle Carlisle. Am I understood?"

Alice stared right back at him for one intense moment, but then she sighed, and nodded meekly if obviously reluctantly too. It must have been good enough for Edward though, because he smiled warmly, leaned in and kissed Alice on the cheek, then cheerfully turned away to tell me good-bye. I was stunned he had even remembered I was in the room (boys-I mean men-usually don't), so he caught me looking straight at him. My head dropped fast when he started talking though.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, sweet Bella, and don't you let Alice give you a hard time tonight," Edward said warmly as he finally came to a stop right to the side of where I still sat at the kitchen table. My heart was pounding but all I could do was keep staring blankly at the black shapes on my textbook page.

He waited just a moment, and I tried to think of something polite to say back when Edward stated speaking again, a little quieter this time, almost gentle. "I can tell you are going to be a good friend for her, and that you only have her best interests at heart."

Of course I started crying, but I at least managed to nod and croak out "Thank you," before I was immediately silenced by the weight of a hand descending on my shoulder. I froze, terrified and elated in equal measure. Edward was touching me.

"You be sure to come to me if there's anything I can help you with too, all right?" His hand was still on my shoulder, as his offer was hanging in the air, and my heart was beating so loudly I knew everyone could hear it and my throat was closed and I was crying and I just wanted to die right there. Instead, I simply nodded, being too overcome with emotion to speak.

'I can't even talk to a man without losing it! He won't ever want to have anything to do with me again!' I thought desperately. But somehow, Edward didn't seem to agree with my unspoken assessment, because he stood there peacefully another couple moments, his hand still on my shoulder, his head still angled towards mine—I may not have been looking at him, but I could feel his gaze—the dynamic between us not one of derision, but of…Actually, I wasn't sure what it was, but I liked it. A lot.

Finally, Edward gave my shoulder a parting squeeze then removed his hand as he turned to leave the kitchen. I felt a ridiculous surge of panic as he moved away from me and towards the door.

Somehow, I managed to stay still. Alice stayed in her spot on the counter too, both of us watching him leave. "See you two ladies tomorrow," he called over his shoulder as he let himself out. Before he closed the door behind him, he turned and added, "I'm using my key to lock it, Allie, but I'm waiting in the hall until I hear the chain slide into place."

"All right, all right," she muttered under her breath as she walked over to the door and put the chain on as he had asked. I heard the lock turn as well, and it was then I registered what he had said.

"He has a key?" I squeaked at Alice, shocked that she would give someone else—a male someone else—access to our apartment without telling me.

"Oh! I forgot to tell you that," she said mildly. "I had to give a spare to Edward, and one to my parents as well. Are you giving a spare to anybody?"

I shook my head, too embarrassed to tell her that there wasn't anybody that would want one. I didn't think Charlie would think it was necessary, although he would probably be glad to know there was someone taking such an active interest in our security measures.

"I can't believe he talked to Jasper," Alice said dejectedly as she threw herself on the sofa. "No wonder he hasn't called me today!"

"I'm sure Jasper was just busy with school. Remember he said that today was his long day?" I reassured her, grateful that her focus was on Edward's conversation with her boyfriend and not my verbal misstep.

Just then her cell phone rang, and she flew up to grab it off the kitchen counter, squealing happily "Jasper!" before running to her room and shutting the door. I tried to return to my calculus homework, but found it exceedingly difficult to concentrate. Finally I gave up, deciding I would get up early to do it before class the next day, and went to bed.

I fell asleep to wildly unrealistic fantasies of Alice's cousin caring for me the way he cared for Alice.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Good grief, this chapter took a long time! Sorry about that!_**

**_I was surprised myself, because I thought I had the second chapter all ready to go when I posted the first. Then I started to edit it, and realized it was ridiculous. I mean, I realized it was more ridiculous than necessary. Mostly because when I write, I have much of the story already figured out in my head, and I only bother writing down the really good stuff. You know, the affectionate touching. The terms of endearment. The emphatic corrections of Bella's low opinion of herself. The good stuff. Ahhhh, yes; to be Bella._**

**_But I'm not Bella, I'm me, and therefore I'm slow and silly and sleep-deprived and coming back up out of my usual monthly, or bi-monthly, or weekly (depending), doldrums and trying to do something useful for someone else (that would be you) that doesn't involve laundry or dishes or emotionally-needy people._**

**_What's that? You're an emotionally-needy person too, you say? Well, let me clarify then and say "something useful that doesn't involve emotionally-needy people who are unwilling to admit their emotional neediness, and therefore make meeting those needs much more confusing and stressful and self-esteem depleting for me than would be necessary if they were more like you." And me. And passive, dependent, shy but perfectly lovely Bella, God love her._**

**_Thanks for reading, and for being you. It isn't easy, I'm sure, but hang in there, and I will too. _**

**_xo liza_**

**XXXXXXXX**

I was unaccountably cheerful when I woke up Tuesday morning.

My little tête-à-tête with Alice the night before had been satisfying, of course. Which was exactly as I had richly anticipated, since we had spent the entire weekend back home together, with Alice studiously avoiding every opportunity to tell me, or her parents, about Jasper's arrival in her life. Oh, the look on her face when she realized I had known all about Jasper the whole time she had blithely been playing the innocent! How her cheeks flamed—and Alice is not normally a blusher—as she remembered, I'm sure, that I had heard her respond to her parents' question about meeting anyone interesting at college yet with, "Oh, not really. There are lots of interesting people around, of course, but there's no one to mention in particular." I should have taped it.

Now, I hadn't meant to be conducting espionage surveys of Alice's dating life. Well, that is my job, or one of them, so let me rephrase and say that I hadn't gone particularly out of my way in order to surprise her with my awareness of Jasper's existence. I hadn't needed to. I had simply been out of town, in Loveland, CO, where I'd been all summer for my clinical rotation with the Trauma Center of the Rockies (and a little hiking and rock-climbing on the side), when she had moved in and started her first week here at UW. Uncle Carlisle and I had figured when we discussed plans last spring that Alice would be too busy unpacking, arranging and decorating to get into any trouble during the short time I would be away. Obviously, we miscalculated.

As I discovered after catching my return flight home a day early (my last Rocky Mountain backpacking trip of the summer having been sadly cut short by bad weather), putting me back in the building just in time to walk down and say "Hello" to Alice Friday night at curfew—only there was already a young man saying "Good-bye" at the doorway to her apartment as I approached. At first I assumed it was someone associated with the roommate, whom I hadn't yet met, but as I got closer there was no mistaking the short, black, spiky hair leaning in to kiss this stranger on the cheek.

I stopped where I was, arms folded, waiting to see what they planned to do next. Luckily for Alice, the answer was "nothing," and luckily for him, the stranger waved good-bye and then waited to see that Alice safely closed and locked the door behind him before moving away towards the elevator. Right past me.

He looked at me a little inquisitively out of the corner of his eye as he approached, and when I cleared my throat and raised my eyebrows at him, he stopped. I held out my hand and introduced myself, saying, "Hello. I'm Edward Masen, cousin and chaperone of the young woman you were embracing back there. Care to introduce yourself?"

I saw the flash of panic in the young man's eyes, and knew two things: Alice had told him about me and her situation generally, and at least this man wasn't a sociopath. (Sociopaths don't panic.) What I didn't yet know was whether he was worried that his seemingly easy access to sexual satisfaction courtesy of a naïve young woman was about to be blocked, or whether he was concerned about the implications of his clandestine meeting with her for his future long-term, caring relationship with my cousin. I intended to find out which of the two it was, and consequently invited him back to my apartment upstairs for a get-to-know-you session.

He wisely accepted, and impressed me more than a little with his seemingly genuine interest in Alice despite the restrictions I was outlining. Jasper, as his name turned out to be, also further gained my trust over the next few days by following my request not to tell Alice he had run into me until I had. He did, however, extract a promise from me in return that I would not rat her out to her father that weekend.

I was glad to give this assurance, as I wanted to enjoy Alice's discomfiture at being called on the carpet, and her dad would be unlikely to share the experience with me. Jasper's insistence on this point for Alice's sake, despite the fact that it had no direct bearing on him, also made me like him more. Loyalty to those you love is everything.

So, yes, I enjoyed myself at Alice's expense last night.

It's also true that I like a challenge, and supervising Alice's behavior at college is sure to continue to be one of those. Luckily, the challenge comes from her intellect and spirit, and not a nasty sense of entitlement or the desire to behave badly for its own sake, which makes me contentedly looking forward to an immediate future of harassing my younger sibling-of-sorts and her surprisingly respectable romantic interest in the best big-brotherly fashion.

But all of this still isn't nearly enough to explain why I was whistling on my morning run, or humming show tunes in the shower.

It didn't explain the grin on my face as I walked to the bus stop either. (I love my Volvo, but I'm environmentally-responsible too, thank you very much. Not to mention just a little cheap—but who wants to spend $20 a day on parking? As my Aunt Esme would say, the question isn't "Can I afford it?" but "_Should_ I afford it?", at least in our family, happily enough.)

Nor did Alice's comical initial misstep in what seems so far to be a harmless relationship with a decent guy explain the lightness of heart with which I listened to lectures on disease and physical decay, or the joy with which I contributed my daily research hours to my supervising professor's brilliant attempts at mechanically replicating the amazing structural and functional intricacies of the human kidney.

And most definitely, my pleasure at having Alice for company and for overseeing at school this year had nothing to do with how I studied for tomorrow's lectures with a little more speed and a lot less attention than I normally do.

I did not, however, have to finally admit to myself that something else was up until I found myself showering and changing my shirt before doing my curfew check on Alice. Even the fact that I was checking up on her in person at all the very next night after establishing our away-from-home relationship was…of debatable wisdom. One thing I know about my cousin is that she does not like a tight leash.

So if my main decision-making focus was Alice's well-being, as it probably should have been, I would have skipped a night at her apartment before checking in person again on Wednesday, in order to demonstrate my confidence (which is actually rather lacking) in her ability to make good decisions for herself. A call on the landline, which her parents had insisted on having installed, much to her eye-rolling disbelief, would have sufficed.

But no, 9 p.m. – all right, 8:55 p.m., which was another sign of my disturbed state, I was early—found me, freshly-shaved, -showered and -shirted and standing on the welcome mat belonging to my cousin and her roommate. Her roommate. Bella, _Isabella_, Swan. Have you ever heard a more elegant name?

I smiled to myself as I waited for Alice, dragging herself dramatically across the room complaining all the way, I could hear already, to think about how mismatched Isabella was to her name. She was no proud swan, that one. Her beauty was much simpler, and more peaceful, and…right. She called to me, there is no doubt about it.

The only thing I had doubt about now was what I should do next. Was it possible that a girl like her would consider for a moment even dating someone like me? And more to the point, would she consider ultimately marrying someone like me? Because I see no point of dating someone I wouldn't consider marrying, and of whom I can have the same expectation—that dating will be a test-run of a more permanent relationship—in return. I may be old-fashioned that way, but I'm comfortable with that.

So comfortable, that I'd almost prefer an arranged marriage to any more time in the unwilling "dating pool," trying hard to find ever-new ways of politely declining the advances of women interested only, or mostly, in sex. Or worse, the awkward first dates made even more awkward when, in the course of the usual getting-to-know-you back-and-forth questions, it becomes obvious to both parties that my plans to support a permanent stay-at-home wife and mother are hopelessly at odds with the woman across from me's plans for career advancement.

Don't get me wrong; I'm a feminist. You can snort if you want to, like the woman in elementary education—a friend's sister—I asked out last spring, figuring maybe she'd be a safe bet for at least considering focusing on her own children (and me) as a career. Snorting wasn't attractive on her, or probably on you, but I understand it.

Just hear me out. I support women's rights to do the same jobs as men (I take exception with combat roles in the army, I will admit), to be paid the same for equal work, and to have children only when they want to (although it would be nice if they considered their child-making partner in that too).

But for myself, and my own family? I want someone willing, no _happy_, to be home_._ To me that's what defines a home to begin with: someone who loves you happily waiting there to take care of you. The incredulous date I first ran that line by looked horrified that a grown man would want someone to take care of him. But it's a fair exchange in my book, as I will most definitely take care of my wife too, albeit in different ways. Am I so evil that I adhere to tradition in terms of what I have to offer, and what I want?

Don't answer that. I know the answer for myself, and that's enough, but I've clearly been looking for a like-minded partner in the wrong places because I've failed to find a taker yet out of the small group of women I've been able to even begin to consider tying myself to for eternity.

I even asked Uncle Carlisle and Aunt Esme to choose someone for me, but they balked. Whether because they didn't want to be responsible for such a significant decision in my life, or they didn't want to embarrass themselves with their friends by asking around for interested parties, I never quite figured out.

In a saner, less lonely moment, I realized I was lucky they'd declined. I knew most everyone in their social circles, and there was no one I was interested in. No, I'd have to take my chances on my own.

Which brings me to Isabella Swan.

I hadn't anticipated having any reaction to Isabella at all, besides making her life difficult if she turned out to be a bad influence on Alice. Which I half-expected to happen, seeing as Alice is all too willing to be influenced badly. I'd made this point to my Aunt Esme and Uncle Carlisle when I had suggested getting Alice a single in my building instead of the two-bedroom they ended up with. But they felt strongly that living with a roommate is part of the college experience they want Alice to have. I could see their point, so I easily forgave them the extra work they were making for me.

At least they had filled me in on the details of the roommate they'd selected while I'd been away for the summer, and whom they were pleased about even though she wasn't exactly what they originally had in mind. Esme in particular had initially been quite disappointed that they couldn't find someone with a similar religious background to our own. Indeed, she had seemed almost depressed and definitely surprised by the fact that the potential roommates they had interviewed who were from our church, or others like it, had given every indication of intending to thoroughly disrespect that religious background at the earliest opportunity.

I could have told her that the first place to look for hell-raising, limit-testing behavior would be in those kids who had been kept assiduously away from any opportunities for such actions before. I'm pretty sure Carlisle understands that too, but just doesn't know how to explain it to Esme. Or doesn't want to.

He leads an interesting double life, my uncle does, dealing with the worst of the ravages of hard living and social ills in his position as Chief Medical Officer of the Forks Community Hospital, while spending Sundays praising a God who allows these conditions to exist, and financially supporting an insular church community more focused on the needs of far-away countries and the big-city poor than the dysfunction right under their noses, and sometimes (more often than most would believe) right in their pews. I've asked him once or twice about how he manages to balance those two worlds, to speak the different languages and operate from the different assumptions they require. He told me he wouldn't last long in either place without the other, and I can see how that might work. Which is one reason why I'm trying to replicate his arrangement, I guess.

Anyway, it was disturbing to me how closely-guarded some of my classmates at the church school I attended growing up had been. Of course, along with the inevitable hell-raisers there were some who wouldn't put a toe out of line at any point in their blameless (if boring) lives. But most of that sort chose to go to smaller, religious schools, or to trade school near home; not to a major state university.

So my aunt and uncle had to go with what they believed to be the far-down-the-list next best thing to a girl from their church, denomination, or even religion: a non-church-goer (the word "heathen" is out of vogue, but still implied), and yet a sweet, gentle, quiet girl; not a drinker or a smoker; no boyfriend; no rowdy circle of high school friends tagging along to cause her (and Alice) trouble in college. I believe my aunt may even have instructed Alice to proselytize Isabella, though I'm certain Alice would have ignored that instruction. Alice wasn't likely to renounce her faith; it was too closely tied to her experience of family, and home, just like me. But she sure wouldn't go out of her way to foist it on others.

I liked that about Alice. It was something we had in common in the middle of a rather evangelizing, and therefore of course arrogant, faith community. Despite adhering to conservative religious strictures, I don't see them as literal gospel, nor does Alice. I understand my faith as being similar to the language I speak: it is one way of communicating with God, understanding life—especially the point of it, and making choices with some hope of ultimate peace and satisfaction as the end result. It also is a cultural, and familial heritage, and as long as it isn't too bad a fit, why would I go looking for something different than what my family uses and holds dear?

I did reject my parents' faith early on, earlier than most, maybe, in seventh grade. But by my second year of high school I had willingly rejoined the church, and had been faithful ever since.

With one notable exception: my relationship with Lauren. She had been beautiful and wild and absolutely intoxicating, and I met her my first semester of college. Lauren is why I am keeping an even more careful eye on Alice than Carlisle has asked me to…but don't tell Alice that.

The irony of that relationship, especially the way it ended, was that I met Lauren in church. She and her family had moved to Seattle the summer before her senior year of high school, and had joined the same congregation I had identified as being my new church home. (Now I simply drive back to Forks for Sunday services most weekends.) I figured out later that they had moved in order to give her a fresh start, to separate her from whatever inappropriate love interest she had developed where they lived before. But at the time, her father used his business as reason for their relocation.

Lauren was beautiful; if her last name had been Swan, it would have fit her perfectly. As did the cold, regal attitude. Looking back, I can't quite figure out what had led me to Lauren in the first place, what had made me so sure that the woman who couldn't bring herself to be warm and kind to my own aunt and surrogate mother was the one who would give me children; a happy home; a future. But that, I am humbled to admit, is what I had thought.

Or at least, that's what I had pretended to think, to myself as well as my family and friends. So when a richer, or at least a man more willing to spend his riches, suitor came along, I was devastated at first that Lauren left me without ceremony or apology.

Then, as the haze of unfulfilled physical longing lifted, (for one of my deficiencies in Lauren's eyes had been my insistence that we keep that most basic of sexual acts sacrosanct for marriage, although we did pretty much everything else Lauren could think of, and a little of what crossed my mind as well), I began to feel relieved.

Finally, with the healing perspective of time, I felt not just relief, but enormous gratitude for the second chance that I had been given. How narrowly I had escaped entering adulthood and adult responsibilities, especially bringing children into the world, with a woman who, I can see so clearly now, had never been looking out for anyone besides her own wounded self. I had, only because of her own selfishness and ignorant need, avoided untold misery, humiliation and frustration, and the unspeakable pain of trying to raise children without the benefit of a mother who could love them more than she tried to love herself.

Of course, I was also more careful with my dating choices after that. So careful that there hadn't been many dates, and those…well, I've already told you how well those went.

I hadn't started to panic yet, but I'll admit that finding myself well into medical school without the slightest sign of a prospective future wife waiting in the wings was concerning me. I don't want to go through life alone, responsible only for myself and my patients and my family in a broad and general sort of way. No, I want to be the proverbial head of a household; I want to protect and honor and cherish someone worth all the love I will pour on her, and more; I want to matter not just to my community, my church, my cousins, aunts and uncles, but to my children; my wife.

But it was a cousin—an angry one—I had to manage now as Alice flung the door open with the dramatic pronouncement, "It's not even 9 o'clock!"

I grinned at her, trying to be charming, and said, "I know, Allie, but cut me some slack. You made such an amusing hostess last night I couldn't wait for a repeat visit."

Alice wasn't in the mood to be charmed, however. She just crossed her arms over her chest, glared, and didn't budge an inch from the doorway. Then she added archly, "Jasper's not here so you can stop trying to spot him over my shoulder. You're not at all subtle you know. But you've already scared my boyfriend enough so that he won't stay here past eight o'clock! So you might as well leave now and go make new enemies somewhere else."

She was right that I was, apparently unsuccessfully, trying to subtly search the rooms behind her for evidence of someone. But it wasn't Jasper I was after. Besides, I already knew he'd left the building at 8:05 p.m. So far Jasper was honoring without complaint my direction to alert me by text to his comings and goings from Alice's apartment, and even my request that he not mention this agreement to Alice.

Despite having seen similar cases before, and in my own family, I found Jasper's reaction to my involvement in Alice's life fascinating. Some men not raised in our faith feel strongly drawn to our conservative adherence to traditional gender roles, and especially to the protective role men are expected to take towards the women in their family and church community. Such men, if they marry in and convert to our ways, often become the strictest enforcers of discipline and gender-based behavioral expectations.

Poor Alice might be thinking herself to be dating a liberal, new-age sort of man, only to watch him morph into a carbon copy of her own uncle, my father, who was a sterling example of a reformed atheist turned strict adherent to and enforcer of Gospel truth.

If Alice and Jasper grow more serious in their relationship, which is already serious just by its existence in Alice's case, I hope she cares for him enough to be able to handle the disappointment if he starts becoming more like the other men in her family. Of course, it may be just this potential in him that causes her to feel drawn to him so strongly.

I won't be suggesting that possibility to Alice, however.

What I suggested instead at that moment was that she let me in. "Come on, Allie, you know I have to look out for you, right?" I wheedled, trying to get her to focus enough on the side issue of whether she should be mad at me or not that I could get past her and find her roommate.

I, on the other hand, was focused on the question of whether I could make Bella blush some more, or find an excuse to get within spark-making range of her body. I was pretty confident she was having the same animal reaction to me that I was to her, because I saw her flinch every time I moved nearer while I was in the kitchen. I would be intrigued with her from a scientific perspective if I wasn't already captivated from a personal one.

By then I had successfully pushed past Alice, who with a half-mad "Hmmph!" had closed the door behind me, albeit with less angry energy than she had opened it. Progress.

After confirming with my improved view of the common areas of the apartment that the kitchen, living and dining rooms were all devoid of people other than me and an irritated Alice, I turned back to her and asked, nonchalantly I hope, "So where's Isabella tonight? In her room already?"

There was a slow second in which Alice's thought processes were so visible she might as well have been screaming her inner dialogue. Her eyebrows then reached a height not seen by anyone before or since, and her expression seemed equally divided between rage and incredulity, when she asked me, "You want to know the location of my _roommate_?"

On alert, and not wanting to mobilize Alice in the social machinations worthy of a Jane Austen novel that she was perfectly capable of and practiced in, I hedged. "Of course. Your roommate has material influence on your well-being. If she's up to no good, so will you be, sooner or later." Determined to lead my relationship terrier of a cousin completely off my trail, I added with a knowing look, "We have past evidence of this tendency in your friendships."

That did it. "What tendency?! There is no tendency! One time—ONE TIME—out of all my years in high school I went to a party, with _your_ FIANCEE, no less, and just because it turned out badly doesn't mean I have any tendency whatsoever to being up to no good! I am very good! I am so good it makes me sick!"

And with that, Alice appeared to have shouted herself out, and sat down on the sofa with a louder "thump" than you would think a petite young woman such as herself would be capable of.

Resisting the urge, strong though it was, to proceed down the apartment hallway and start knocking on bedroom doors, I followed suit and lowered myself down, with more grace than Alice had displayed I hope, next to my dejected-looking cousin.

"Allie, it can't be that bad," I said gently, because as much as I enjoy teasing her, I really love my cousin and hate to see her unhappy.

She made an odd little noise that defies transcription, but neatly communicated both her continuing irritation with me and her current state of sadness at her separation from Jasper. She had a worse case of love-at-first-sight infatuation than I had realized. It was time to set my own romantic interests aside for the moment and focus on my big-brother role. Alice really needed some TLC.

So I reached out—carefully, because she's been known to react to unwanted touching with violence—with the arm closest to her and gingerly enveloped her shoulders, then meeting no resistance, pulled her in for a bear hug. She came willingly, and even tucked her head into my shoulder and started crying.

I patted her head and rubbed her back and made the requisite soothing noises without suggesting she actually stop crying until she was good and ready. You see, Alice, like most of the women [and some of the men: you should see Emmett, Alice's brother, when the Seahawks lose] in my family, really benefits from a good cry every now and then. And of course, one of my most important job functions as her resident family elder is providing a suitable crying surface.

To tell the truth, I enjoy it. I'm not a crier myself; more a king of the withering glance. Although to hear Esme tell it, I'm also good at sulking. Whatever. But despite my lack of empathic understanding of the emotional need behind it, I like watching the crying process unfold. Watching Allie go from heart-rending sobs, seeing the tears streaming down her cheeks, to slow sniffles as the tears slowly run dry, to big shoulder heaves as her breathing modulates itself down to a calmer level, the intensity of her emotions having dissipated with the moisture already evaporated off her cheeks; well, it's kind of cathartic for me too.

I especially relished it today, after so much keyed up enthusiasm, paired with worry, for the idea that I have maybe, just maybe, found a new candidate for the role of possible life partner. It sounds so dramatic, phrasing it like that, but it _is_ dramatic to find the person you've been looking for and waiting for and hoping for ever since it occurred to you that you needed someone else to have the life you want; the life you're made for.

As I thought about my own emotions today, I understood better Alice's reaction to Jasper's departure being earlier than she would have liked. Alice has been waiting too. Not as long as I have, but with fewer distractions in the form of other relationships.

Indeed, Alice has never had a boyfriend before now; nothing more than a case of puppy-love or two for the new youth pastor when she was in junior high, and more briefly for a womanizing senior who unwisely took interest in her when she had just started high school. (Alice's brother Emmett, one year my junior and so a senior too at the time, took care of that situation before it had time to develop, which was all to the good even Alice had to admit seeing as the young man in question was kicked out of school for drug use not long after.)

I was grateful for this insight, because it clarified what I wanted to say next. "Allie, if he cares about you the way you want him to, and the way I think he might, he will be patient with the rules we have in place to keep you safe. He'll be grateful that you are being looked out for by people that love you. I know it's hard to wait, but if he's worth your love, he'll still be there in the morning. And the morning after that too."

She didn't move her head from my shoulder, but after one more shoulder-heaving deep breath I heard her quiet reply. "I know, Edward. I know that's true. And I trust him to be that for me, and more; I know it's fast, but I'm sure I can trust him! I just know in my heart that he's a good man, and I trust him already!"

I didn't say anything to this, just kept my hand in gentle motion on her back and her side, letting her know I was still listening.

A few moments passed, and she added with a sigh, "But I suppose it's a good thing that you're here, looking out for me. Just in case I'm wrong." She sat up then, looking me in the eyes, her nose almost touching mine. "But I'm not. Wrong, I mean," she said, challenge in her voice.

I smiled at her, happy to be reaching a peaceful accord, and leaned in to bump my nose against hers. "I don't want you to be wrong, Allie. I like him too," I reassured her.

"You do?" She sounded surprised.

"Of course I do. If I didn't you wouldn't have seen him again after last weekend," I said with assurance. And an arrogant air, just for effect.

It worked. She sat up even straighter and slugged me in the arm before hopping off my lap and back to the far end of the couch. "Jerk," she said, but with more affection than annoyance now.

I laughed; she smiled; all was right in our little world. Except…still no sign of Isabella.

Hoping it wasn't too soon to move Allie on from our heart-to-heart about Jasper, I plowed ahead. "Al, I still am wondering, where is Isabella tonight?"

"Oh! She's working, I guess," Alice responded, furrowing her brows as she pulled her mind away from the subject of Jasper.

"Working? At this time of night?" I hadn't expected this, and I didn't like it.

Alice nodded her head seriously. "Yes. She told me yesterday at dinner that she wouldn't be here today to eat with us, because she'd just found out she got one of the jobs she applied for over the weekend."

"I thought your dad told me that she qualified for financial aid, and was placed in a work-study job in the admissions office?" I knew I wasn't mistaken in my memory of that conversation, and it was rare indeed that Carlisle got his facts wrong.

"She does. I guess it's not enough." Alice hesitated, looking a little sad and serious. Then she continued quietly, "I never realized how much I took for granted before now. I mean, I knew we had more money than most of the people around us, but it never seemed to matter very much. I can see now how it matters. I don't have to work a minute, other than studying and doing your laundry, and Bella has to have not one but two jobs just to take classes and live here!"

I knew Alice was upset by her roommate's situation because her voice had an earnest tone that was rare for her, and also because she had referred to doing my laundry—which was one of the givens for her the way keeping track of her whereabouts and taking out her garbage and checking the air in her tires were givens for me—without any sign of resentment or pseudo-feminist ire. I say pseudo-feminist, because Allie really doesn't object to most of the labor divisions in our world; she just hates doing laundry. I couldn't reflect again on the humorous irony of that given her love for clothes right now though. I was too worried about Bella.

"Where is she working?" I asked, giving up on pretense and sounding just as anxious as I now was.

"College Grounds Coffehouse; you know, the one across from the campus bookstore on University."

"But that's the other end of campus! Did she drive?"

"No, she doesn't drive her truck if she can help it. It's not in very good shape; it sounds awful. She says the walk home will wake her up so she can finish her homework. Jasper offered to walk home with her tonight when we met for lunch today, but she looked horrified when he suggested it. He made her promise to call him when she gets home safely though; he's very sweet."

"Yes. Although I'd prefer stern in this instance. He should have insisted."

"It's her business, Edward! She's an adult."

"She's a female young adult away from home for the first time and living in the middle of a major urban area with an unfortunate history of producing effective serial killers. This is not acceptable. I'm going after her."

"Edward! Don't! She'll be so embarrassed, and then she might get mad at me!"

"Alice Cullen, do you really think avoiding a little embarrassment for her or hurt feelings for you is worth jeopardizing her safety?"

"No, of course not, but she's not like us, Edward! You'll scare her away!"

"I won't scare her away, Allie. I promise. I'll just keep her safe. She needs someone like me watching out for her; you can see that, right?"

"I guess so." There was a pause as Alice considered this. She nodded as she came to a conclusion in her own mind; out loud she said, "But don't be obnoxious about it, please, Edward?"

"When have I ever—" I sighed, cutting myself off as I realized that from an eighteen-year-old female perspective, I had been obnoxiously protective on many occasions, including last night. I didn't think Bella's definition would be as limiting on my behavior as Alice's though, because she looked like a girl absolutely desperate for a little protectiveness on her behalf, so I had no problem saying in a conciliatory voice, "Okay, Allie, I won't be obnoxious about it, I promise. I better run, though. Do you know what time her shift is over?"

"Um, I think she said, midnight?" Alice's hesitancy in relaying this information to me betrayed a new emotion at work here: guilt.

And she was right to feel it, as I told her: "Alice, I swear to God, if you ever stand by again and let that little roommate of yours go waltzing off around Seattle with plans to return home by herself, on foot, at _midnight_ without telling me or someone else capable of stopping her, I will beat you myself. This is _serious_."

I didn't really mean the beating her part; my family did not condone violence of any sort against women. At least not my Carlisle-led family; I was pretty sure my father had physically punished my mother in the later years of their marriage, at least once or twice. But as far as I was concerned, that was just further proof he was an insensitive asshole who didn't know how to manage people who weren't his employees.

"I know, Edward. I'm sorry." Alice looked absolutely dejected, which is as rare for her as blushing, so I had no problem forgiving her, especially given the fact that I was pretty certain I could fix the situation quickly.

"It's okay, honey. I know you were just trying to be a good friend, and respect her wishes. And if you're a little distracted by Jasper, that's understandable too, but I know you'll pay more attention next time to her work plans. And so will I." That was an understatement. "So I'll go bring her home safely, and you be good while I'm gone, all right?"

"All right, Eddie. I love you."

"I love you, too, Allie bear."

And with a quick embrace and kiss on Alice's bent head leaning in to me for reassurance and forgiveness, both given whole-heartedly, I was up and off the couch then out the door, locking it carefully behind me as always.


	3. Chapter 3

**Today: I am re-realizing/remembering/reminding myself, it's OKAY to hurt, to feel lonely, to feel longing. It's normal; it's to be expected; it's not a crisis. It doesn't necessitate action, although it's true I imagine future actions in the moment of the hurting. But I do or do not take action based on more than just pain management, thank God, or at least I do now. (I don't think I did in the past. It was almost all pain management, which was why my life was such a mess.)**

**So, when I'm hurting now, I remind myself too of the other things to focus on in life other than answering the question of "Am I FEELING happy/content/satisfied/loved…", a question that is sometimes so much better left unasked, as American as it is to ask it. Some other questions to consider asking instead:  
1. Am I doing "the right thing" (whatever I believe it to be in my situation)?**

**2. Am I investing in my future in a way that will help me be the loving person I hope to be? **

**3. Am I making myself stronger?**

**4. Am I making relationship connections that might, some day, feel better than they do right now? (When we don't have the strong, intimate connections we need, it's tempting to just pull away altogether…but those strong, intimate connections start somewhere, so nurture those possible beginnings of strong, intimate connections, if you can.)**

**5. Am I helping someone else?**

**6. Am I connected/connecting with my sense of wisdom/of the loving power in the universe?**

**Or, to challenge yourself if you are doing nothing in the moment (besides passive pain management) in response to your sense of urgent misery, and you wonder if maybe doing ****_something_**** would be better…**

**1. Am I doing nothing merely out of fear? Is that fear legitimate? **

**2. Is the action I would like to take but am not taking selfish? Or is it more selfish to do nothing? (Define for yourself the important difference between soul-maiming selfishness and respecting your basic need to survive…obviously there will be blurring and continually overlapping lines between them.) **

**If this doesn't help you, please don't get hung up on the judgment implicit in the term "selfish"! I use it, because I sometimes need to prod myself a little with shame, or, more accurately, with projected future regret (shall we add "PFR" to our list of new terms, including "Plaths" as measures of emotional intensity and "high-feelers" as a class of people chronically misunderstood and devalued by the rest of the world?) to take action I'm afraid of – which is pretty much anything involving other people (including you). **

**Justine (see below) describes this dilemma more poetically, and less judgmentally, by saying she tries to remember that the point of life is not (in her, and my, opinion) to hide out in a cave (tip of the hat, Plato) and arrange her life perfectly in her own mind before going out in the world, perfection ensured; but to show up in that scary world every day (okay, most days) as her imperfect self, having faith that doing so is what is needed, even when she doesn't feel needed (or appreciated, or wanted, or liked, or loved, or…) at all. Justine is very smart.**

**3. If I act on an impulse for action (to counteract my pain) that I am currently resisting by doing nothing, am I more likely to be happier or sadder with myself in the long run than I am right now? (This is the Ann Landers—or was it Dear Abby?-question to decide whether to end a marriage or not that can be applied to any decision with moral undertones, which is pretty much any decision at all.) Is there anyone else who deserves input, or representation, in this weighing of future contentment with my decision? (I have to ask this question a lot when I'm dealing with the difficulties of my marriage. FYI, marriage is damn hard work.)**

**And finally, don't forget to ask yourself if you are being gentle, and nonjudgmental, and forgiving, with yourself in your pain. Courtesy of the amazing Justine (not a stage magician, but a superb friend and wise woman growing wiser), I share with you an affirmation she has culled from much reading and reflection (and if you can identify a specific source, please share it with us, as her brain like mine doesn't always hold on to bibliographic information): "I am a precious object, deserving of tender care." **

**If you snort reading that, you're in good company…or at least, you're in company with me, judge the quality of said company for yourself! But Justine argues well, and passionately, (yes, it's beautiful to hear; I am very lucky), that how we treat ourselves is generally how we treat others (agreed), and so treating ourselves as "precious objects" merely ensures we treat the occupants of the rest of the world that way as well. This is an excellent sneaky argument for those of us with severe shame issues.**

**I will confess, however, that poor Justine had to repeat this beautiful sentiment, in a ****_very loud voice_****, more than once before I could finally hear it over my tearful recitation of all the reasons I suck as a person (yesterday was a Very Bad Day). Luckily it is quite funny to have someone screaming affirmations at you, with loving exasperation, and no doubt the humor of that helped pull me out of my self-pity death spiral. So, THANK YOU, Justine! And may you too have a Justine to yell affirmations your way! But just in case you don't right now, (Justines are rather rare, and I cannot bear to part with mine), YOU ARE A PRECIOUS OBJECT! YOU ARE DESERVING OF TENDER CARE! DO YOU HEAR ME, OUT THERE? I MEAN YOU! PRECIOUS OBJECT! TENDER CARE! REPEAT AFTER ME! NOW WRITE IT DOWN!**

**Really, the writing down helps. Now I'm going to go what may seem to be off-message and confess that next to Justine's version of that beautiful affirmation which I have scrawled on an index card taped to my computer, is my poor rendering of a happy little earthworm. Or rather, an accepting little earthworm. That would be me, my animal avatar, and if I didn't think it would gross people out, I'd find a picture of one to use on here. **

**Why an earthworm, you ask? Or, as Justine phrased it, "An ****_earthworm? _****What about an eagle?" (Justine is routinely dismayed by my lack of self-esteem, and my lack of concern over said lack of self-esteem. And I might enjoy, just a little bit, tweaking her with this. Can you tell we used to be roommates?) So, yes, Justine, not an eagle, but an eagle's lunch. Or rather, an eagle's lunch's lunch. Maybe even an eagle's lunch's lunch's lunch, depending on how picky the eagle.**

**Why an earthworm? Because that is how I feel I live my life right now. Crawling on my belly through the dark; no pride; no respect; no protection; no safety; no future but eating dirt and creating…compost, not through highly-skilled and well-remunerated labor, but through my excrement, and eventually, my cold, dead body. Did I mention that yesterday was a Very Bad Day?**

**Now, this may sound very negative to you, but to me (and if you're a high-feeler, maybe you can see this too?), it is a HUGE RELIEF to just call it as it is. I am a societal earthworm! I am part of a nameless, devalued mass that creates the rich soil the prize roses grow in! I am the patient (in action, even when not in feeling) creator of miniscule passages that add up to nothing alone, and gain significance only as part of a community of other patient workers, most of whom I will never even catch glimpse of through the dirt! **

**I am aware of the large, important creatures stomping around above me, willing to consume me if convenient to them, but mostly finding me beneath their notice, or their concern. I am familiar with their power to, in moments, scoop up all that I've worked my life to create and fling me into an uncertain future, one in which I'll start over, somewhere, crawling through whatever new dirt I may be lucky enough to land in. I could complain, but I am aware as well exactly what good that will do me. No one likes to listen to an earthworm's lament-even other earthworms (they're too busy eating s#!+ to listen to it for long).**

**I could get treatment for this condition; plenty of American psychiatrists are willing to prescribe all sorts of psychotropic drugs to try to get an earthworm to turn into an eagle. They don't work. (Recreational hallucinogenics might, I suppose, create the sought-after transformation, at least temporarily…but in my case at least I predict merely a confused and distressed earthworm as the result of such experimentation. Still no wings. Still no beak. Still no predator attitude.) **

**The important thing to realize, if you are an earthworm considering this route, is that after their drugs and pep talks fail to transform you, the treating professionals will not blame their drugs and words for failing to have effect. Nor will they question the wisdom and sense of trying to transmutate one distinct—and productive, though eagles may not see it so—form of life into another. **

**No, they'll blame you, the earthworm, for still being worm-like, and they will call it "earthworm personality disorder," and you will find yourself in exactly the same life as before, only laden down with shame and anger over who, and what, you are, and your inability to be anything but yourself. (Not to mention the medical bills, which earthworms tend to have a hard time managing to pay.) **

**It's tiring, and expensive, and anything but a guaranteed success, trying to change your nature. But it does make for interesting, if cautionary, life stories to share with your neighboring worms. I cannot say I recommend it, but no doubt you'll have to find out for yourself…here's hoping you have better luck, and wiser professional guidance, than I.**

**A final note about the human earthworm: we do have the ability to stand up and make ourselves heard; we can be as ferocious and predatory as the biggest Bengal tiger…well, as a Bengal tiger cub, anyway. How do we manage this feat? **

**We don't. It's instinct, and it happens when our sense of justice or our loving protection of other creatures is triggered by ignorance or violence or greed. We go from harmless worms to fang-bearing snakes so quickly we don't quite believe it ourselves, and we have been known to scare ourselves sick, not to mention get ourselves into situations that our worm nature cannot navigate when the immediate threat fades and the fangs go away. But know this: an earthworm is a formidable friend, and an awesome protector, in spite of themselves (and too often except for themselves).**

**And you know what? I'm okay with all of this earthworm reality, because I like being me (most of the time), and I don't ever like trying not to be me (it's way too much effort, and never works out quite right), and I believe God (or somebody) loves me and made me (in a general, if not specific, sense) and wants me to go on for as long as my little worm body can squiggle! So there, eagles. **

**I don't mean to denigrate eagles; they are impressive birds indeed with a visibly-important place in the ecosystem. They also are so removed from my plane of existence that they make for very safe and theoretical foils. In contrast, I can't imagine safely drawing the attention of all the songbirds in the neighborhood, lest they eat me. Although, if I have many more Very Bad Days in the immediate future, I may revise that plan by painting myself blaze orange and learning to worm hula. On the grass. In the middle of the robins' migratory path. I wonder if worm life insurers would consider that intentional or accidental death? I will have to consult a worm attorney—please let me know if you have one to hand.**

**In sum, one can be a worm, and still believe oneself to be a precious object, deserving of tender, even loving, care. And if you are a worm too, striving to love yourself despite all the denigrations and accusations and encouragement to evolve into something higher up the food chain that worms so often get then I—well, as a worm, I'm not sure exactly what I do! Clearly, I can't applaud you, (no hands); perhaps I salute you? (Richard Scarry would seem to believe this is possible, for Lowly Worm anyway). **

**I would worm-hug you, but I'm pretty sure that's how they have sex, so that doesn't seem an entirely appropriate show of support. Although since I tend to think of sex as a messier-than-usual hug, then maybe that wouldn't be so bad. (And Houston, I think we have identified one more root marital difficulty: I think of sex as messy hugs, and my husband thinks of hugs as wasted arm motion. What marital compatibility quiz did we not take that would have clarified this for us?) **

**Well, specifics of worm solidarity aside, from one dirt-dwelling stomach-crawler to another, I say: Well done! Be strong; carry on; we need you. I need you. It's lonely in the dirt by yourself, so let's connect tunnels and aerate the world together, chewing up other beings' negative emotional output and leaving behind us, love! And s#!+. Loving s#!+, if you will. (And if that isn't an apt description of my fanfic writing, I don't know what is.)**

**And now, without further worm analysis, here is chapter three of College Rescue, which still has a crappy (worm-like?) title but has at least been recently edited to correct the significant discrepancies in space-time continuum that result when a multi-chapter author lacks the nerve to read what she's already posted. (I have since found that nerve, thus the corrections. I also have made a sincere pledge never to use the verb "cocks" in conjunction with Edward, or Edward's head, or any part of Edward's body, ever, ever again. Should I break this pledge, unintentionally, I assure you, do please somebody take pity on me and message me a gentle reminder that Edward should never "cock" anything, or give Jasper (or anyone else) a tongue-lashing, however much Jasper may enjoy it. Thank you.)**

**Disclaimer: Thank you, Stephenie Meyer, for allowing us to use your Twilight characters and plot elements and even words sometimes—the gift is priceless, and worth far more than the four battered copies of the Twilight Saga I have filling up my desk drawer. Thank goodness you're not making me pay for this privilege, because I couldn't, and that would be sad indeed. **

**Thank you, dear readers, for being patient and nonjudgmental, with me and with yourselves. **

**Blessings to you!**

**xo liza**

**xxxxxx**

_I was lost on campus. Some part of me realized I was dreaming, and I could just open my eyes to know where I was again. But I didn't want to—wake up or be found. I was waiting for something to happen. I was waiting for someone… _

_Suddenly, I was inside a new building, one made up in my head; about half-science center and half-student union. I was searching for my class. I opened one door to an auditorium full of students, all staring malevolently at me, and shut it again, quickly. I opened another door, finding my mother, looking disappointed and accusing. I turned away and ran, hearing her voice but refusing, even in my dream, to listen to her words. _

_I wandered down a labyrinthine hallway, until I found a third door. This one led to a dark, cavernous room that, in its barren emptiness, was almost scarier than either of the two before it. I watched a curtain take shape at one end of it, and knew that my subconscious was making use of my Harry Potter reading to generate a place evocative of wanton abandonment by those we need and love. (I hated the brutal ending to Sirius Black's avuncular caring for Harry.)_

_I started to cry, in my dream and for real, which I knew because at some level, I registered that my pillow began to feel wet against my cheek. _

_Starting to sob, my body jolted from the shock of a hand descending on my shoulder. I tried to shift under it, to shake it off, but it stayed firm, firm as the voice now saying my name, "Isabella." I tried to scream, but no matter how hard I tried, no sound came out, the vocal equivalent of running in place from nightmare threats. _

_I tried to turn then, to see who the hand belonged to, but I was turning around in slow motion. I could sense my mind deciding what I would see in this dream, debating with itself. There was something I knew I really wanted to find behind me, but part of me wouldn't allow it. The endless turn went on._

_Finally, something in my mind gave way and I finished the half-circle, coming face to face, or face to chest with… Edward, Alice's cousin. So relieved. Instant, total comfort. He smiled at me, like he did at Alice, with all the warmth and safety of his unquestioned love for her now being sent my way. I just breathed, staring at the noon-day sun, basking in its warmth and power._

_But then I heard an alarm, a buzzing, and started to panic, the bizarre university building around me coming back into focus and moving around in ominous ways, consciousness threatening at every shift. I heard words that I almost believed, in my half-conscious state, came from Edward's lips: "It will be okay, Bella. I'm here. It will be okay." _

_And fast as love-starved lightning, I smashed my hand on the alarm next to my bed and snuggled back into the blankets, eyes tightly closed, desperately hanging on to the vision of Alice's cousin until I managed to slip back into the dream again. And as I felt myself fall back into the dream building in a dream world with a dream man who wanted me, I heard his voice again, and felt—really felt—his arms. I was safe. I was loved. I was home._

_…_

I woke up in an instant. And then, instantly panicked. Looking around, I noticed the light coming through my blinds was far too bright for 5:30 a.m., and that my alarm clock was on the floor beside me. I remembered the dream I had been having. Although the look and sound of it were slipping away, the warm, safe feel of it was close enough to my consciousness that I understood why I would have brutalized my alarm clock to hold on to it a little longer.

But then I caught sight of the calculus book open on my desk, my unfinished homework around it, and the panic returned.

Jumping out of bed, I caught one foot in the covers I had wrapped around me and fell to the ground. Banging elbows and my head, at least my floor was carpeted so that it wasn't so bad a landing. My new position put me in close proximity to my alarm clock. I fearfully lifted it off the floor and reluctantly tilted the red digital face my direction…8:20 a.m.! I had class in thirty minutes!

I also had to work that afternoon, and again that night, so I had no choice but to take the time to shower and dress in a decent outfit. After managing the basics, hair wet and clipped up in a twist, undone calculus homework shoved in my backpack, I looked at my watch as I headed out of my building and saw there remained only 15 more minutes before class started.

So I ran all the way to calculus, proud of myself to get there only five minutes late. That didn't seem too bad, and it could have been so much worse! I was almost congratulating myself for being so grown-up and collegiate in handling my accidental lateness, showing up to class anyway instead of using it as a cowardly excuse for skipping and falling behind in the lectures, as I opened the door.

Unfortunately, the door was at the front of the class, just to the side of the whiteboard where the professor was lecturing, and I became the instant focus of almost every student in the class as I entered. More unfortunately, the professor noticed me too, and even interrupted himself to say to me, with asperity, "I hope you don't make a habit of coming in late like this. It's disrespectful to your classmates, and rude to me," before returning to his lecture.

I was absolutely crushed, of course, and briefly considered running out the door I had just come in. But as I had already carefully closed the door behind me and moved in to the room a couple steps, and the class's attention had by then returned to the professor's lecture, it seemed like I would attract more attention turning around and running away than if I just proceeded to the back of the room and sat down.

So I did that, finding a seat as private and hidden as possible from the professor up front, who now completely terrified me. I festered in shame so acute I thought I must die, and was surprised (and a little frustrated) to find that I didn't. Having been a model student, out of fear, my whole life up until this point, I was caught off guard at how much the world around me didn't react to my abasement. The world definitely didn't end, and didn't even seem to care very much. I tried to take comfort in this fact, and mostly failed, although the sheer interest of it did help with the initial moments of suffering.

I might even have ended the hour with a sense of accomplishment, having had the unspeakable happen and lived to reflect on it, but that Professor Varner ended class by going over yesterday's homework assignment, asking students to go up to the front and write out their solutions to the problems assigned. Of course, he selected me to do one of the last problems, one I hadn't even managed to attempt the night before. I didn't balk, but walked up to the front like an automaton, copying the problem carefully from my book. Then I stood there, staring at it, hoping for instant inspiration so that I could solve the problem in such a way that didn't give away I'd never looked at it before.

That didn't happen, and, predisposed to think the worst of me, the professor took the opportunity to remind me of how college carried with it higher expectations for initiative and responsible study habits than high school had, and that I let not only myself but my classmates down when I didn't keep up with the work assigned. I think I stopped hearing him at some point, nodding vaguely when I thought he wanted me to, and retreating back to my desk of shame to allow some other, more prepared student to complete the problem on the board. My brain buzzing, nothing made sense, but somehow I copied down the solution offered, my paper wet with tears.

On the way to my next class, all the warm feelings of the night before had vanished, and had been replaced by gut-wrenching shame and self-hatred. _Of course _it was just a silly fantasy, the idea that Alice's cousin might have noticed me at all, any more than he noticed the contents of Alice's cupboards, or the kitchen table. _Of course_ I was just imagining things when I felt a connection with him when he touched me, out of politeness and an Alice-like affability only I was now certain. _And __**of course**_ Alice's handsome cousin—the medical student—will never, ever look at me twice, or probably even remember my name. What had I been thinking? And what had I sacrificed to engage in those thoughts, even for just one night?

I didn't answer myself in specifics, too afraid to do so and admit to myself how far gone I'd been already. Caught up short and facing reality now, however, I could only repeat to myself over and over again, _I'm so stupid. I'm so stupid!_ _I'm so stupid._

Of course I wanted to die, which was normal for me; but the intensity of the desire was at a new and frightening level by the time I was debating, after my second class, whether to honor my early lunch date with Alice in the campus cafeteria, or run off and try to find somewhere to hide for 45 minutes before I had to be at work.

Sheer ingrained politeness (despite my calculus professor's low opinion of my manners) had me keeping the date with Alice, and I was glad I did, because it offered the first emotional relief of my day. By the end of lunch, the tears had receded and I could breathe without feeling stabbing pains in my chest.

Work in the Admissions Office after lunch was, if not as positive as spending time with Alice, at least uneventful. After I was done there, I made it on time to my last class of the day, and then to my new job at the coffee shop with a couple minutes to spare.

When I got to the shop I found two people hard at work taking orders and making coffee behind the counter, while two more apron-ed individuals stood to one side and talked over a paper schedule. As one of those two talking, the woman, nodded her head smiling and moved off, she looked up and caught me staring at her.

Smiling more, she waved me behind the counter, recognizing me from my time there on Saturday when she'd been running the shop while one of the other managers ran the interviews. I smiled in return, and taking a deep breath, set in trying to learn all I could about how to be a good employee there.

Luckily, my trainer and shift supervisor, the woman from Saturday, was as nice as she seemed. But my other co-worker for the night seemed to take an immediate dislike to me, from the moment we were introduced. The stress of a new job, and all the little (and big) mistakes that come with it, had me trying not to cry. Ignoring or brushing off the unfriendly, unkind looks and comments of this other woman working with me had me trying not to cry some more.

Then, half-way through my shift, when I had begun to feel beginning mastery over the operation of the shop's cash register and the serving of their food items and refrigerated drinks, (I hadn't been trusted with creation of the coffee drinks yet, thank goodness), and just as I was starting to calm down a little bit, Alice's cousin walked through the door.

I didn't see him at first. I just heard the door open and shut, because Lucy, my supervisor, had pulled me off of register duty and charged me with washing the trays for tomorrow's baked goods, so my back was to the door. I didn't pay attention either to the customer my aggressive and angry co-worker Jill was serving. But as I finished the last tray and set it to the side to dry I could sense someone staring at me, so I finally turned around—and looked straight into Edward's eyes.

He smiled at me. "I thought that was you," he said cheerfully, even companionably.

I froze, not understanding at all. My mind tried to make sense of what he just said, and how he said it, and concluded that there must be someone he knew standing behind me.

So I turned and looked. No one was back there. Just Jill (my angry co-worker) standing off to my side, glaring at me. _What have I done now?_ I couldn't help but think.

I turned back towards Edward. He had obviously noticed Jill, because now he was glaring at her while she continued to look daggers at me. Tears started to form again, pooling unusually quickly due to all the use they'd had so far that day.

"Bella? Isabella, are you all right?" Edward's attention was obviously back on me, and he seemed concerned.

As for me, well, I heard the concern in his tone, and I recognized it was my name he was using, but I still didn't understand what he wanted, or what he meant, or why he was standing there. I raised my eyes to look at him again. But only for just a second, because he was staring at me with worried eyes, and I couldn't bear the unexpected intimacy of seeing his concern. It wasn't safe.

_Why is he worried? What is he doing here? _I thought to myself, as the savior from my desperately wonderful dreams the night before approached the counter, present in real life and confusing—and scaring—the heck out of me.

Edward said my name again as he came closer, "Isabella?"

There was a new note of urgency in it that dragged a response from my muddled brain. I nodded. I didn't know why I nodded; I couldn't remember what question I was even nodding a "yes" to.

But it seemed to mollify him, because he stopped moving into the counter and said back "Good," in a firm voice.

I was still crying, which was humiliating, and there was enough moisture by then that I was forced to sniffle and wipe the back of my hand across my eyes.

_I'll have to wash my hands again,_ I was thinking to myself when I heard his voice, quiet and deep, say to me, "Come here, sweetheart."

I turned around to look behind me one more time for the other person he must be talking to, but there was still no one there, not even angry Jill off to the side anymore because she was back at the register to ring in a new customer's order. It was just me, for the moment, and Edward, who I could see out of the corner of my cast-down eyes was holding his hand out to me across the counter.

I knew this looked bad; I knew there were basic rules against socializing with friends (_is Edward my friend?_) in one's place of employment; I knew that my usual work ethic would have had me hard at work in that moment, rinsing the spotless trays.

But it was Edward's voice commanding me, and Edward's hand summoning me, and so I couldn't do anything other than approach them both—his voice and his hand—albeit slowly.

Edward laughed, a small, gentle laugh, and I looked up, confused, to see what was funny.

He was smiling kindly at me, concern still showing, and maybe sadness too. "I'm sorry, sweetheart; I don't mean to scare you. You just look so afraid of me, like you've done something really bad, and you think I'm going to punish you for it."

My eyes dropped at once, scared indeed of how accurately he read my mind, and ashamed to apparently be getting things all wrong, yet again. I felt my cheeks burn, and was consumed with the desire to run for the back door and fling myself out of this unbearable reality.

Some very small part of me, the part that wanted so desperately to succeed here, and not to limp back to Forks to work at the Thriftway and live with a disappointed father who doesn't really want me in his home; that part forced me to keep my feet planted where they were, although I could no longer process any auditory input at all.

So the world went silent and my mind went blank until I felt something brush against my hand, then hold on tight. That sensation shocked me back into awareness, allowing my hearing to return in the middle of something Edward was saying, "…come get you out of there? Can you hear me, honey?"

I nodded, a few times, little nods. I could hear him. I didn't know what that meant or why he cared, but I could at least answer his question.

"Yes you can hear me, or yes you need me to get you out of there?" he followed-up quickly, his voice serious. My brows furrowed as I puzzled that out. _Get me out of here? Why would he do that?_

My confused calculations were interrupted by Lucy, the shift supervisor, coming up out of the downstairs storage area with the paper good supplies and tomorrow's break schedule ready to post, and saying kindly (thank goodness), "Isabella, are you all right? Is this someone you know?"

I looked up at her, mortified to be caught breaking one of the first rules of good employee behavior, and nodded, again a little vague about what I was saying yes to.

I pulled on my hand, wanting to put distance between myself and Edward, in an attempt to salvage both my job and my dignity. Okay, just my job. I've never been big on dignity.

Edward didn't let me go right away, however. Instead, he looked towards Lucy and addressed her, in a charming voice, saying "Hello, I'm Edward Masen, Isabella's friend, and chauffeur tonight. I'll stay out of the way; I just wanted to make sure she was doing all right here."

Then he squeezed my hand and dropped his eyes to me, saying more quietly, "Are you?"

I nodded more quickly and convincingly this time, the adrenaline running through me helping me cut through the emotional haze Edward…_Masen_ always seemed to create in me.

Edward smiled in response, saying "All right, then," as he carefully set my hand on the counter and released it, squeezing it a moment first, like a hug—a hand hug. I inwardly rolled my eyes at myself for thinking that—hand hug, indeed—as Edward moved off, but still heard him saying, "I'll see you in a couple of hours, Isabella. No running off without me," and as he said that, he turned and looked straight at me, almost searing me with his eyes before turning back again.

I stared after him for a couple of seconds, watching as he walked to a small table half-way between the counter and the windows and settled in with a laptop and an academic journal. Then I turned to wash my hands, and start in back to work.

Lucy, who had watched curiously the end of my interaction with Edward but had mercifully not said anything about it to me, kept me busy for the next hour learning how to make the coffee drinks that were the bread-and-butter of the shop. I only got two burns, one on each hand, as I practiced my espresso-making technique, so that was pretty impressive for me. I was kind of surprised at how many people order espresso drinks at 10:00 at night, but Lucy laughed and pointed out that we were next to a major university campus, and there would always be a steady supply of people who needed to stay up all night in order to get papers written and exams prepared for.

I nodded my understanding, and thought that maybe I should make myself start drinking coffee. After the morning's humiliation, I had sworn to myself that I would never go to sleep with homework undone again. And as tired as I was already this semester, it didn't look like the Cokes I usually drank for this purpose were going to cut it.

Weighing my options as I ran the espresso machine, I decided to try a café mocha for my last break; it had chocolate and whipped cream along with the espresso, so I thought maybe I could handle it. When the time for my break came, I made the drink myself, and entered it in the log where employees keep track of the beverages and food they purchase—we were each allowed one coffee drink per eight-hour shift for free, or I never would have allowed myself to buy it. There was no way my budget allowed for $4 cups of coffee.

My budget didn't allow for eating in the cafeteria either instead of bringing bag lunches, so I worried for a moment once again how I was going to explain that to Alice. She seemed to expect that we would regularly meet for lunch at the student union on the days when our schedules matched. I sighed as I thought about that dilemma; I really like eating lunch with Alice.

And with Jasper. He had joined us today, and if I had known he would be coming, I would have made an excuse to Alice so that she could enjoy being alone with him. But I didn't know, because Alice didn't tell me (on purpose, I suspect), and despite being kind of scared of Jasper (although it helps that he's so interested in Alice he barely notices me), I really had a good time. He's funny, and nice, and maybe I could be friends with him, if things work out between him and Alice. I really hope they do.

Still, I can't keep having lunch with them like that. I'll have to figure out an excuse.

And as that decision was made and my apron was off and hanging in its spot, I checked the clock and headed out to the seating area for my break, my book for English class under my arm. I don't know how I could have forgotten who was sitting out there already; I think I must have blocked it somehow in my brain.

But as I crossed from behind the counter, I accidentally looked straight at Edward, and saw him looking straight back at me, waving me over. I hesitated for just a moment; then, figuring there was no other option without being inexcusably rude, I marched his direction, bracing myself for the shame and embarrassment I sensed lurking for me in the upcoming interaction.

Edward was busy clearing off his table of his books and computer, placing them on the unoccupied table to the left of him. I approached and hesitated by the chair opposite his, while he stood and came around from the other side, pulling the chair out for me and indicating with his hand that I should sit.

As I sat I placed my coffee on the table, but no sooner had I set it down, then Edward scooped it up. I watched, shocked, as he removed the lid and sniffed it, then without a word walked off to the trash cans and threw my untouched coffee in. I stared after him in disbelief as he went up to the counter and ordered two more drinks; both herbal teas, I could see. He also bought two muffins and the last remaining fruit cup. Then laden down, he made his way back to the table.

Setting the tray on the table in front of me, he said, "Eat up."

I just stared: first at the muffins, then at him. He stared back, smiling, no sign of guilt or discomfort over his disposal of my beverage. I wasn't mad, I was just incredulous. Finally I said something. "You threw away my coffee."

He smiled larger. "That I did."

"I need the coffee to stay awake," I explained.

Edward replied authoritatively, "No, you need to go to sleep as soon as you get home. You'll be sleep-deprived as it is after working this late, I'm afraid."

"But I have homework!" I protested, growing panicked.

His response was quick, and unflustered. "I'm sure you do."

"I won't be able to stay awake in order to finish it!" I added, trying to get him to see the obvious.

Matter-of-fact and completely assured, Edward said with an air of finality, "Your health comes first. We'll deal with the rest of it as it comes."

I was outraged. I mean, I don't sit around thinking about how unfair life is, that Alice should have such a loving and supportive and caring family, and I should be an accident that neither parent was particularly happy about. But when Edward said that, with such presumption, as if there was any guarantee at all that he would have anything to do with picking up the pieces if I didn't do well at school and get a good job and figure out how to "stand on my own two feet" (one of Charlie's favorite phrases), well, I got mad.

And I said so. Or at least I said, "What do you mean, 'we'll deal with it'? I'm not your responsibility! I'm not related to you!" in tones of such bitterness and frustration, the mad part was definitely implied.

But Edward wasn't fazed; he came right back with "Thank God for that."

And there was the humiliation I had sensed lying in wait for me. Of course he doesn't want to be related to me! Here he was, just trying to be nice, and all I could do was complain! _I am such a bad person,_ I screamed inside. _I am so bad, so bad, so bad._ I started to cry.

Edward leaned in to me, wiping the tears with one hand. I kept crying, trying to keep the sobs silent.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart; that came out wrong," he said in a soothing voice. "Or rather, it came out right, but you misunderstood me, and I should have expected you to."

I was glad he was still being nice to me, but I just wanted to die, more than at any point in that day, and maybe in my life so far. I wanted to dig through the tile floor and curl up and die.

My face was burning and I was desperately searching for some way to salvage this situation when I felt him turn my chair towards where he was, now crouching on the floor at my side and looking up at me. I avoided his eyes, looking down at my legs, and his, but I still heard him as he continued in a tender tone, "I am unspeakably grateful that you are indeed not related to me, because I wouldn't want to be attracted to someone I was related to the way I am attracted to you."

My mouth dropped, and once more, I just sat there, staring at him (well, at his legs, anyway). This was becoming a frequent occurrence with Edward… Masen. It felt strange to think his last name, especially because it was different from Alice's. It made him seem somehow more exotic; more dangerous.

Whether it was from working around coffee fumes all night or because I was building up an immunity of sorts to complete overwhelm-ment, at least I did manage to keep thinking this time around. What I was thinking out as I sat stunned, besides my reaction to his name, was an analysis and odds-calculation of the possible things Edward could have meant by what he just said.

Possibility One was he was making fun of me. But that didn't strike me as likely given what I knew of his character so far, and the lengths he was going to in order to be around me.

Possibility Two, which I was giving the strongest odds at the moment, was that he was just being kind, maybe at Alice's goading, and trying to stoke my self-esteem by more or less lying to me. I was fairly certain this was the case.

However, I was also considering Possibility Three, which involved him being high on some unknown mind-altering drug, although he certainly didn't look or act like it in any other way. Possibility Three-B was that maybe he was having some sort of psychological break; I considered this, and thought maybe I would ask Alice about it later.

Possibility Four was that he was telling the truth, and was so ludicrously impossible that I wasted no time on it.

Edward interrupted my calculations by reaching across me and taking one of the teas and setting it down in front of his seat, then breaking the muffins in half and opening the cup of fruit. Next he turned my chair back under the table, pushing it in a little further too. Finally, he placed one of his large hands on the back of my head and pushed a fork towards me with his other hand while saying, "Eat. I'm willing to bet you skipped dinner tonight, so I want to see you eat at least half a muffin and all of the fruit before you go back to work. If that makes you late getting back from your break, so be it."

My eyes widened as I started in on new calculations of the odds that he would force me to stay in my seat and eat past the time I was due back at work—a mere seven minutes away. I quickly concluded the odds were quite high, so began eating the grapes and then the raisin bran muffin. When I started following his orders, Edward gently removed his hand from my head, pushed my chair in a little further still, and squeezed my shoulder before moving back to his own seat.

As I ate, and after he touched me with such tenderness, I started to feel better, and calmer; like maybe everything really was going to be all right. I decided not to worry in that moment how that would be possible; I just enjoyed and felt oh-so-grateful for the fact that Edward was still in my presence, relieved that despite my ungrateful and emotional behavior, he was not yet acting like he despised me, or found me to be a waste of his time and effort.

The muffin was good, and huge, so the half that I ate went a long way to filling the aching hollow that had indeed been my stomach before. I had meant to pack a peanut butter sandwich for dinner, but had been running so late this morning that I hadn't had time. I could have grabbed something on the way, maybe, but I was punishing myself a bit for sleeping in, and also being mindful as always of my limited funds.

After I finished the required amount, I looked back up and saw Edward still staring at me. And smiling, still. I smiled back, and blushed. "Thank you," I said, "for the food. It's really good. Do you want some?" and I pushed the plate with the remaining muffin halves his way.

"I'll have one now, and we'll save the rest for our drive home," he said, as he scooped up the other half of the raisin bran muffin and took a bite. "How's your tea?" he asked then, as he sipped at his own.

I hadn't touched the cup that had so upset me at first, but now I tried it. "It's delicious," I said with surprise and gratitude. I wasn't usually a tea-drinker, but I guess that might have been because I'd never had anything other than Lipton tea at Charlie's or the tea at my mom's favorite Chinese restaurant in Phoenix. This was something else entirely, and it made me feel so warm and lovely!

Smiling again at Edward, I said, "Thank you for the tea."

Then, blushing and dropping my head as I remembered the horrible things I had said, I added in a quieter voice, "I'm sorry I was so rude about the coffee."

I felt his hand cover my own as he said back to me, in a tone every bit as assertive as any he'd used tonight, "You are not to be sorry about anything, Isabella. Do you understand me?"

I nodded, out of habit, but I didn't understand him at all.

He squeezed my hand, as if reassuring me that that was okay. "I know it will take you a while to get used to having me looking out for you. I _expect_ you to get upset sometimes with me; Alice does too, remember?"

I lifted my head at that, smiling at my memory of last night, which though it horrified me at the time, now seemed a little funny given how safe Edward seemed to be, and how much he and Alice seemed to love each other. (I knew how Alice felt about Edward after talking to her about him at lunch.)

And now he was going to look out for me too? It seemed too good to be true. It had to be too good to be true. At that thought, my head dropped again, but Edward just held my hand tighter and said, "It will be okay, sweetheart, I promise."

Edward using that term of endearment _again_, when it was something I had heard so rarely lately (terms of endearment were not Charlie's style, and my mom had been avoiding me ever since she sent me off to Forks because I had, in her words, "worn her out,"), almost caused another breakdown. But luckily or not, just as the tears were starting to gather, I heard Jill say, not nicely, from behind the counter, "Your break's up, Isabella; it's my turn."

I jumped up like the seat was on fire, and avoiding looking at Edward, said "Thanks-for-the-food-I-really-appreciate-it-see-yo u-later-thanks," and ran off, taking one last sip of the delicious tea before throwing it away, along with the empty fruit cup, on my way.

I worked as hard as I could the rest of the night, both trying to undo any bad impressions made on my supervisor by my interactions with Edward, and trying hard not to think at all about anything he said. Nothing good would come from thinking about those words, I was certain. I would just start wanting things I couldn't have, and would become so consumed with wanting, I wouldn't be able to function in the real world... where I was alone, and would likely always be alone.

Because I was working so hard, and because I was dreading facing Edward again—or rather, dreading the let-down after he brought me home and left me alone again—the time flew. Sooner than I could believe, Lucy was announcing closing time to the few people left in the seating area, Edward included. They all gathered their belongings and headed out the front door, which Lucy locked behind them, switching the sign from "Open" to "Closed."

Edward was the last to leave. Before he did, he approached me where I was standing by the counter with a mop, ready to clean the dining room floor when all the customers had gone. "Isabella," he said sternly, "you're not going to give me any trouble about driving you home tonight, are you?"

I looked up at him, caught sight of his intense eyes boring down at me with aggressive, if kind, intention, and meekly shook my head "No."

"Good," he said, nodding once, then moved away towards the front door where Lucy was waiting. "I'm parked in the back lot, sweetheart. Come out to my car when you're done," he instructed, over his shoulder, as he walked away.

At the door, he turned to Lucy and said, "Please make sure Isabella leaves out the back door tonight. She's stubborn about refusing help, and was planning to walk home alone."

I flushed beet red to have someone telling tales on me to my supervisor, and suggesting that I needed supervision of a less-than-professional nature.

But Lucy smiled at him; she approved of him, I could tell. "I will. We all go out the back door. I'll make sure she's safely in the car before I leave; I always do that for the people I work with," she reassured him, with no sign of resentment, thank goodness.

Edward smiled approval of her as well. "Thank you," he said with warmth, making me feel just slightly conspired against. I liked it. "Good night," Edward said to Lucy just before the door closed behind him.

I was blushing madly, and to cover it, and recover my equilibrium, I set to mopping with great fervor. By the time I was done, I was exhausted. The late hour and the long shift after a full day of classes and working already had caught up with me, and I was in no mood to argue with Edward about driving me home by the time I was clocking out.

Instead, I followed Jill out the back door.

There I paused as Lucy locked the door behind the three of us, overcome with gratitude for the shiny, silver Volvo parked under the security light in the back lot.

I was grateful, that is, until I saw the person inside the Volvo staring right at me. Then, I was terrified.

It's hard to explain, the terror I felt. It was just Edward, and despite the creepy lighting, I didn't really think he would pull an axe from behind him, or suddenly become a vampire and bite into my neck. And yet, I was unquestionably scared for my life. As I stood, transfixed, and watched him get out of his car and approach me, all I could think was: _There is something here I don't understand; there is something here that will hurt me, not because of what it is, but because of what I will be when it's gone.*_

With sudden clarity, I realized what was wrong, just as Edward Masen came within reach and I turned to flee and found the iron door dispassionately locked behind me. _This is a dream, _I told myself_. And I know what dreams do in my life. They make me oversleep, and not finish my homework, and arrive late for class, and be held up as a bad example for everyone to see. Dreams trick me, and lie to me, and shame me. I can't trust my dreams. I can't trust Edward Masen._

xxxxxx

*Isabella's line is an inverse from a line in one of my favorite love poems, "Love" by Roy Croft, or "Ich liebe Dich" by Erich Fried, depending on the veracity of the Wikipedia account I read (I love Wikipedia): "**I love you, Not only for what you are, But for what I am when I am with you**…I love you for the part of me that you bring out…I love you because you Are helping me to make Of the lumber of my life Not a tavern, but a temple; Out of the works Of my every day Not a reproach But a song…"


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note to My Author's Note (I won't make this a habit.): A Happy Thanksgiving to those of you who celebrate it, and my loving thoughts to those of you who don't because of personal loss, or its historical association with invasion and genocide. (As a person of European ancestry living in a Midwestern state, I unquestionably live a life partly rooted in the violence perpetrated on behalf of my ancestors, and in some sad cases by my ancestors. I don't think that makes me evil, or my ancestors evil—just human, and therefore capable of evil, selfish acts. But I do think failing to acknowledge that history, with its role in the material comforts of my own life and the pain and injustice suffered by others as a result, then and now, would horribly corrupt this life of mine, more than it's already corrupted by my own selfish thoughts and hurtful actions.)**

**Anyway, despite its onerous historical baggage, I'm glad for any reminder to count my many blessings. These include you, and this community we share. And as part of trying to act on rather than just feel this gratitude, I' m going to start reading the reviews some of you have taken the time and trouble to post. It might take me a while, because it scares me. Maybe you can appreciate that the fear is less for criticism (although that's scary enough), but for praise and encouragement. Why? Because kindness can be taken away. And then I'm left with the shameful sense of having been not enough to keep the kindness, and having been found out in my inadequacy as the unworthy person I've always feared I was, and am. Ugh. **

**So, in this selfish fear, I run away from people. I'm just starting to realize all the people I've hurt in my life by running away. Pat, Levi, Dominic, Eric, Carl, [Hmmm, anyone see a trend here? Yes, men scare me.] Dane, and everyone else, I'm sorry. I'm not sure I can translate that regret into corrective action yet, but I'll try, and try some more. If I can just remember I'm an earthworm, that takes what comes and expects nothing more than dirt, I should be okay—if a little unskilled in social niceties. Wish me luck, and luck to you too!**

**Now, on to my original author's note… **

**I'd like to share the pinnacle of success my mother and I have reached in our intense, emotional and all-too-often mutually-painful relationship. After a recent visit to her home, as she was helping the boys and me to our (small) car with our (large) quantity of bags and miscellany (like the second-hand treasures I culled from her cast-offs and the 8 jugs of Juicy Juice I picked up on sale at Target), my mother stood quietly, and without her usual advice and concerned criticism, watching me wedge things here and there. (Luckily my 5-year-old still doesn't need much leg-room, and my 8-year-old is a stoic sufferer of items in his personal space, as long as they are of benefit to him-unlike his mother, he does have standards. I'm relieved.) **

**Then my mother said to me, in an air of wonder and tentative acceptance, "I worry about you driving like this, but you're always going to be a bag lady, aren't you?"**

**Joyfully, I turned to her and smiled, gratefully affirming the accuracy of her newfound understanding. "Yes," I said, "I am always going to be a bag lady." (I didn't feel like stretching her acceptance any further and explaining that, actually, I'm an earthworm; "bag lady" is definitely close enough). Never have I felt as wholly loved by my mother, my strong, marvelous mother, as I did in that moment. **

**One of the most difficult and hurtful aspects of being a bag lady (or earthworm) is, in my opinion, dealing with the people who think you should be a princess or CEO instead. At all levels of interaction, from our perception of our fit with societal expectations to our individual relationships with friends and family members, being something—and I do mean fundamentally ****_being_**** it to the core of our selves—that is devalued or even despised is enormously challenging to one's pride, self-concept, and eventually/potentially even one's will to live. **

**This is not news, as probably anyone who's visibly different from the norm can tell you.**

**But I'm different ****_inside_****. ****I know that trying not to be different probably won't work (concluded after 38 years of trying), and even if it does for a while, it will make me hate myself (both the "real" self stuck inside, and the "fake" self selling out) all the more. But because this difference isn't immediately visible to others, trying to get those others to believe in this difference, and most importantly to alter their expectations and understanding of me based on this difference, is extremely difficult. After all, to the outside observer, my—and your, if you're an earthworm too—lack of fit results merely from our behavioral choices. So logically, most observers conclude, we would fit in just fine, no need for angst or drama, if only we would just make different choices!**

**Yes. Well, let me explain the flaw in that logic. **

**I believe the human will is emergent, just like God. We do what we do because our action, and our inaction, springs from us as the necessary sum total and consequence of all our individual genetics, physiology, experiences, intellectual understandings and spiritual beliefs—and most definitely out of not-accessible-to-conscious-thought habit, and what behavioral psychologists would understand as "reinforcement history." This is why "should's" are so destructive: they presume that you had any choice in what you've done, and that you can easily direct your future with conscious thought alone. **

**Conscious thought is a miracle of evolutionary development or God's creation, or both, but it is much more effective at concocting stories to tell ourselves about why we do what we do than it is at unilaterally directing our physical bodies and animal will. (Freud understood this as ego vs. id, and though I object to some of his finer points, such as his poisonous conception of female sexuality, it's hard to argue with his basics.) **

**Our culture is based on this fallacy, or enormous oversimplification, of conscious control of our behavior, and it keeps us trapped at the most basic levels of discourse on topics like crime and punishment, justice, racism, gender roles, and economic inequality, just like we trap our own selves in shame and guilt when we fail to understand and forgive our more unpleasant, destructive behaviors as being the sad but necessary (at the time) result of the imperfections in the world (including our physical bodies, our social networks, and our economic reality) around us. I think we continue to hold fast to the idea that we ****_choose_**** our behavior because it is not only simplistic and reductionary, but—for those looking to easily understand their world in absolute terms of black and white, right and wrong, good and bad—attractive, and profitable. But sadly it is also interpersonally, socially and culturally violent, and so limiting on transformative change.**

**Instead of beating yourself or those around you with should's (or should not's), if you want to change a behavior in the future, the most important thing to do is to try earnestly to understand as many of the reasons as possible that call that behavior forth, or that work against it—and then to address the circumstances affecting those reasons! If all you have to fight against a behavior that organically unfolds from you is the cognitive thought, "I shouldn't do it," well…good luck. (And please note that "I shouldn't do it" is different from "God doesn't want me to do it." Activating your strongest spiritual beliefs in response to a need for behavior change seems to me one of the best ways of making it stick—as the 10-step process of Alcoholics Anonymous so beautifully demonstrates.)**

**So what does this have to do with being a high-feeler? You can ****_know_**** that it is destructive to yourself and those around you to express more emotion than your family/friends/co-workers/etc. are comfortable with, but that in itself is not enough to STOP expressing more emotion. Not even ****_wanting _****to,****_ really, really badly,_**** is necessarily enough in itself. (It can be, and some people will tell stories about how their awareness of desiring change in themselves brings about that change—but what they may not be aware of, and are not crediting, is all the other known and unknown conditions that also had to be in place in order to make that change possible.) **

**More generally, this is also why the American belief in "pulling yourself up by the bootstraps" is so destructive to our national decision-making and political discourse: just because that works once in a while, for lucky people with genetically-, cognitively-, emotionally- and socially-strong enough bootstraps, doesn't mean anyone can do it. And not being able to do it does not make you a morally bad person, unless your moral code is simply defined as being able to pull yourself up by your bootstraps (honor, integrity, love, empathy, loyalty, kindness, self-sacrifice, humor, and everything else be damned). There may be a few who genuinely feel this way (Ayn Rand's writing comes to mind), but anyone else who believes morality is more complex than surface-level flourishing in one particular society at one particular historical moment is lying to themselves if they don't acknowledge the degree of chance and luck, good and bad, associated with any such triumph, or any such failure.**

**This is a humbling perspective, but also a very guilt- and shame-relieving one. Personally, I find the relief from shame far outweighs the negative cost of the humility; indeed, I've come to find humility to be an extraordinarily warming cloak, and a surprisingly effective armor (see the earthworm rant, chapter 3). **

**I believe I had a point here; let's see if I can retrieve it…ah, no larger point than my usual railing against the indignities of the universe, I suppose. **

**And that leads me to my last point about will, and its emergent nature: despite the limitations of infinite unknown variables on our behavior, I do believe that God's (substitute your deity here) love is a trump card that can work behavioral miracles the likes of which can make walking on water seem like a minor freak of nature. (I don't mean to minimize Jesus's awesome power of love, but merely to point out that levitating is perhaps not as loving and therefore miraculous from a relational point of view as letting go of a destructive addiction despite all the shame of past choices, or turning the other cheek and forgiving brutalities to body and spirit, or rising above all the modeling one's witnessed and being a different parent than we experienced ourselves). The difficulty here is that the decision to play this trump card in any specific way is, by definition, God's choice, not our own. **

**Do I think that God sits up in heaven with a highly-detailed playbook, weighing in "yea" or "nay" on every single opportunity for loving miracles to occur? No. But then I don't even think, as much as I want to sometimes, that God is sitting up in heaven. I think that God is the summation of all the love in the universe, past and present, and as such has an emergent power far greater than any one entity's love. So I tend to pray not for specific outcomes (as much as I want certain outcomes to happen, like Edward Cullen springing to life and loving me instead of Bella), but for a loving attitude, and resilience to pain, and access to the great spiritual reservoir (that I like to think exists) from which loving actions that defy all probability, past experience and selfish need spring.**

**But think of God as you will, and see your own miracles—that's the beauty of life, as well as the pain of our individual existences, so necessarily alone in some ways. And that is why Twilight is so appealing of course. Vampire love is the most thorough, indefatigable (literally), unending (literally, again) antidote to aloneness ever conceived of outside of Heaven. And yet there's a sadness there too, because in fighting successfully against pain and aloneness and death, our favorite vampire couple accidentally reify universal love as their own relationship, and relief from human suffering as eternally being their own fallible, individual selves, spiritually imperfect entities trapped in their singular imperfection forever. **

**I don't hold much against imperfection; being quite imperfect myself, I'm learning to love it. But I think I might get tired going on being my specifically imperfect, needy, selfish, scared, spiritually tired, angry, grouchy, occasionally belligerent self forever. And even if I didn't tire of my own existence, there is the truth that as beautiful as any one soul may be, the people on earth now must fade away in order to make room for the new people that will develop. **

**It isn't that new beauty is better; but then neither is old beauty—it's just more or less known. And maybe in the yet-to-be unknown future lies new potential for loving better, truer, stronger; for taking some of those hidden limitations on our selfless love and turning them around into reasons for loving, not just as individuals, but as families, as communities, and as cultures. **

**So, may I not cling with greedy ignorance to this one brain, heart, and soul of mine when it's my time to return to dust, and may I make the best and most loving life possible out of my time here… whatever that may look like in God's loving eyes, my own being inadequate to judge.**

**Thanks for reading, and for being part of my life.**

**xoxo liza**

**Disclaimer: Twilight belongs to Ms. Meyer; I'm just mining it for love, with gratitude for all ****_her_**** love that makes this possible.**

**XXXXXX**

I was so distracted by Isabella's earnestly-hard-at-work presence in the small coffee shop that the whole time I sat there, I barely got one sentence read in the article I was meant to present the next day. Just as I would finally gain enough mastery of my attention to focus on a word, I would hear her sweet voice answering a customer, or catch out of the corner of my eye the movement of her small body behind the counter, and I would have to start all over again on redirecting my attention to the printed page.

Nor did I fare much better the few minutes I was waiting for her in my car. As I stared at the text, heady visions of her delightful body seated next to mine crowded my eyes, making reading impossible.

Finally, I just turned the overhead light off and sat there, with a ridiculous amount of anxiety, and anticipation, waiting for her to exit out the back door.

Maybe the atmosphere around me had something to do with how keyed up I felt. It was after midnight, after all, in back of an urban storefront, dumpsters all around me and the sound of drunk patrons of the bar down the block making its way through my windows-along with the occasional screech of brakes from the street. The lighting was eerie, as the night was overcast, and the only illumination came from the other-worldly glow of an ancient security light perched on top a crooked wooden pole.

Just as my anxiety was about to propel me out of the car to check at the front and make sure Isabella wasn't disobeying my orders and walking home without me, the back door opened, and the three coffee-shop employees made their way into the small parking lot off the alley.

The sullen girl came out first, walking quickly to an older-model Honda. Without hesitation, she slid in and drove away.

The others took longer to exit, as they appeared to be in conversation, two dark shapes with their heads bent towards each other. Finally, Isabella stepped into the alley light, and I watched as she turned her head to the right and left, looking for me.

As soon as her eyes lit on my parked car, they travelled up the hood and locked with my own eyes, staring at her. A jolt of electricity flooded my body, almost as if I had touched her. Adrenaline surged, as did something else I took a moment to identify, as I continued to stare at her, watching her chest rise and fall with such exaggeration I could monitor her rapid breathing from where I sat.

Desire. Desire coursed through my body with my blood, electrifying me further, and drawing me out of the car and toward the girl who was now frozen outside the coffee-shop's exit, her supervisor just finishing locking the door and moving off to the modest-looking hatchback I had noticed when I parked.

Isabella made no move as I approached her, though I was certain she'd seen me. Indeed, she stood stock-still staring in my direction, just like a deer in the headlights-presuming I was an agent of imminent destruction speeding towards her without mercy.

As I got closer, I saw her shivering in the cool night breeze, one hand going up to gather her thin shirt closer around her, holding it tightly at her throat…as if it would afford any protection at all from the cold, or from me.

I slowed my strides as I closed in, becoming more deliberate, a grin forming on my face in spite of, maybe because of, my target's obvious fear. She was finally moving, backing up as I bore down, but quickly finding herself trapped with her back against the closed and locked steel door.

I wasn't sure what I intended to do once I reached her, and was just a breath away from finding out, when Isabella's supervisor interfered. Calling towards us from her car, she said for the second time that night, "Isabella? Are you all right?"

Isabella snapped out of her daze then and turned towards her supervisor, thus missing my final descent. As she nodded and weakly smiled at the kind woman daring to interfere with me, I grabbed up the hand closest to my own and wrapped my fingers tightly around hers. Drawing her body into mine while she assured the woman that she knew me, and was expecting me, and that she was fine, none of which were strictly true, I captured her lower arm too, and pressed it into my body while starting to pull her towards my car.

She followed obediently, if hesitantly, dragging her feet just a little. But after one last "Good-night" to her supervisor, the other woman had finally received enough reassurance to get into her car and go.

I said not a word, relishing the knowledge that I was soon to be alone in the dark with this trembling creature whom I knew for certain I intoxicated and terrified in equal measure. I was as drunk as the raucous bar patrons rambling down the street, singing off-key.

And yet my motions were more controlled than usual, my body responding with discipline and vigor to the needs of the moment. With a side-step worthy of Fred Astaire, I had her back up against the rear passenger door, one knee pinning her there as I turned and unlocked her door.

Opening it, I smoothly turned back for her, and, grabbing hold of her forearms, maneuvered her into the front seat, stopping just short of sweeping her legs out from under her. She made that move unnecessary by finally acquiescing with her body and folding herself into the seat, picking up and swinging her legs in herself.

I stared down at her, my arms braced against the door frame, my eyes sweeping across her still-trembling body. I felt anger surface at her vulnerability, and at how poorly she'd been cared for up until now. But I couldn't deny that I was also hovering at the edges of her personal space with predatory intention.

So I was brought up short as she slowly raised her head, then shyly looked up at me so disbelievingly, and with such obvious hope in her eyes, that it almost broke my heart. Who had been raising this precious girl all her life that she would respond to my selfish manipulation of her, and her body, with such gratitude, and such potential joy? Tamping down the rage now flooding me, I poured all my desire and appreciation for Isabella's quiet, gentle nature into my smile, my eyes, and tried to reassure her, and myself.

It appeared to work, at least as far as Isabella was concerned, because she blushed and looked away, before relaxing her whole body into the seat and closing her eyes. I lingered a moment longer, and felt the desire grow as the anger ebbed.

Finally I moved, grabbing the seatbelt and pulling it across her body, careful not to actually touch her until I got to her hipbone near the latch. There, after securing the belt, I rested the side of my hand for a while. As my physical contact with her went on, Isabella's color faded and her body grew more rigid. I was fascinated, but was recalled to the present moment and her need for a feeling of greater safety when I saw her chest start to heave in panicked breathing.

I leaned in further towards her chest then, our torsos almost touching, my head against her jaw, and whispered into her ear, "Shhhhhh, Isabella, it's okay; you're all right." My thumb started making circles on her hip bone, (which was jutting out more than it should, and I made a mental note to investigate that later), and she whimpered. I rejoiced in her fearful reaction to my body as surely as I condemned myself for doing so.

Trying to make up for myself, I said more, in as persuasive and calming a voice as I could summon: "I'm just driving you home; I'm just keeping you safe like I told you I would. Like I do for Alice."

Saying Alice's name made Bella jump a little bit, her eyes flashing back up to mine, tears and a new fear I hadn't anticipated, and didn't understand, in them. I had expected the mention of Alice to calm her.

Nonplussed, I moved quickly away out of her personal space, unzipped the hooded sweatshirt I had been wearing, and leaned in one last time to spread it over her. As I tucked it in around her shoulders, which were shaking now, I said with a confidence I was not feeling in the moment, "This will keep you warm until I get the heater running."

Part of me wanted to chastise her for not wearing a jacket and being so reckless with her own health, but luckily that part was willing to be quiet for now in order to serve the greater goal of keeping her from running away from me, and out of my life.

After I had finished covering her as best I could, I closed her door and moved quickly around to the driver's side.

The first thing I did after getting in the car was to hit the locks; I knew as I did so that my impulse was to keep her in it even more than to keep undesirables out.

Her head snapped towards me as the locks engaged; she seemed to intuit exactly what I intended with that commonplace, matter-of-fact act. Her shoulders heaving again, she stared at me as if she was trying to divine who I was, and what that meant for her, in the half-darkness of the parking lot light shining through the windshield.

I stared back. The animal in me rejoiced at my position of power over someone I…_wanted_. Blood rushed away from my brain to other relevant parts of my body, and I stared at her like the hungry shark circling the plump little monk seal it has identified as dinner that I knew myself absolutely to be in that moment. The seal stared back, its eyes wide, realization dawning.

Then the seal did something so unexpected, so insouciant, so…reckless, it took the shark's breath away and turned him instantly back into a man. A man with morals and religious strictures and family expectations and definitely a man with responsibilities to the young woman now locked inside his car. Damn it.

What did the seal do, you wonder?

The seal smiled. A full-grown, trusting, happy, grateful smile. It was beautiful, and I admired it with wonder even as I felt the animal magnetism of our predator-prey relationship dwindle for the moment. There would be time for attack later, I chastised myself. Right now I had to get my baby seal home to bed.

Without speaking, I started the car, turned the heater to high and directed the vents towards her, and reversed out of my spot, pulling out into the alleyway, then onto the street towards home. I knew the drive home wouldn't be nearly long enough.

I left my hand in place on the back of her seat after backing up, not trusting myself to allow it any closer to her, or past the large, protective bulwark of the seatback. And I carefully kept my eyes on the road and away from the temptation next to me.

However, I was almost thwarted in my efforts at restraint by the girl in the front seat herself. For, as we sat waiting at a red light, I detected simultaneously the slightest new floral tang in the air and the precipitous drop of the girl's—MY girl's—head, bowing in shame.

Putting two and two together, of course I got four, and double-checked my addition with a quick glance at her legs now pressing tightly together, cemented from ankles to knees to… I smiled at both her body's reaction to me and her psyche's discomfiture. How rich is the anticipation of taking the innocence from someone who truly understands its value!

Even better was the satisfying knowledge that any pleasure I gave her would be as much a surprise as the pain—more so, because this was a girl who expected to be hurt by life. By me.

But she wouldn't participate in the process, for either pain or pleasure, and that was part of what drew me so strongly to her. She was not lost in the fantasy of her own youth and beauty; she did not expect me to meet any, let alone all, of her needs. She didn't even seem to believe herself worthy of interacting with me, as ridiculous as that sounds. That much was obvious.

Less so was why that made her so appealing to me. I suppose it is refreshing to offer oneself to someone truly grateful for what they receive, rather than to someone who feels you are merely their due, or not even enough in yourself. And of course, Isabella was young and beautiful and smart and kind, and those are all lovely qualities on their own.

But there was more, and that more had to do with how much her actions cried out that she needed me. Or someone like me. No, she needed ME. I needed to think that.

Does it speak well of me, this desire to be needed so? I suppose not; but then again, why should it speak ill? So I long for an ample and willing canvas on which to paint the colors of my loyalty and devotion and love. Isn't it a good use to put my aggression, skill and intelligence to, caring well for a person who would not be cared for at all if left to her own devices?

Everything in me rose up to answer "Yes" to my last question, and I was overcome with a gratitude that almost made tears form in my eyes—I felt their prickling beginning—as I also felt the weight of her existence descend on my very ready shoulders. This newfound and most welcome heaviness allowed me finally to sense the ground of unshakable purpose beneath my metaphorical feet, and gave me a comforting sense of connection both with the best parts of my past, and with my imagined and hoped-for future.

But Isabella didn't know this yet. Glancing over at her, seeing how she was trying to disappear into the seat and out of view, as if she might stay hidden in my car forever and be glad of it, I knew that she was unaware of the transaction we had just made—or rather of the acquisition I had just completed without her consent: deciding she was mine.

As I pulled into a parking space in our building's lot, I thought about what to do next.

I was hesitant to cut the engine, as from somewhere deep within came the impulse, the very strong desire, to pull back out and onto the road and take her home to my aunt and uncle's house in Forks. For a brief moment I imagined tucking her into my bed there, and the beauty of it, and of her trusting face looking up at me in safety and contentment, took my breath away.

But then she stirred, opening her eyes, and saw where we were. And before I could drive away again, she was undoing the seatbelt and opening the door. I hesitated as she reached down for her backpack which I'd placed at her feet, watching as she folded my sweatshirt neatly on the seat and listening to her shy voice thank me profusely. And sadly wasting my opportunity to keep her longer in the car.

I knew right away that was a mistake, and I cursed myself most thoroughly for losing myself in self-congratulation before the job was done. Not that Isabella herself represented a task that could ever be completed. But returning her home both safely, and securely in my thrall was an important, yet unmet goal, gauging by the speed with which she hurried away from my car.

Quickly exiting myself, I hurried after her. "Isabella, wait up," I said as she was paused at the back entryway, searching for her keys.

She kept searching until I covered her hands with my own and said, "Look at me."

Hesitant, she raised her head. The fear in her eyes hurt my heart to see, while the trembling of her tiny hands excited me further. "We need to talk," I said, as firmly as possible, squeezing her fingers gently with my own; holding fast.

"I'm so sorry," she said faintly, already taking responsibility, and blame, for whatever I wanted to talk about.

I couldn't help the small, somewhat bitter laugh that escaped me. Someone had some explaining to do about the unwarranted guilt this one small person carried around.

I felt the fingers of one of her hands straining against my own, and relented enough to let her grasp the keys she had found at the bottom of her backpack.

Watching her shiver as the wind blew by us made me move back from her personal space, allowing her to bring the retrieved keys up to the lock as if she might be allowed to open it.

But I also leaned against the door, still keeping her there.

"Isabella, we need to talk about your schedule," I said, trying to keep my voice neutral and matter-of-fact. "You can't keep working these late-night hours."

I felt vaguely ridiculous laying down the law in the middle of the night, standing in the chill night air outside our apartment building, but I didn't trust her to stay in one place long enough to listen once she got inside, and I didn't trust myself to handle the situation well if she ran away from me right then. The last thing I wanted to do was scare her away by being too aggressive in my pursuit before I had her more thoroughly and completely cornered, not just physically, but psychologically too.

So temporarily pinned at the door it was, for the second time that night. And like before, she trembled even harder.

"Um, what do you mean?" she offered, so quietly, I barely made it out.

"I mean," I responded with authority, "in the future you may not work any shift past nine o'clock, with eight being preferable. And you may not work any shift past daylight hours without arrangements for safe transportation home. 'Safe' meaning not alone, and not with just another girlfriend. At this point in time, I think 'safe' for you means either myself or Jasper picking you up and seeing you back to the apartment—although if you want to nominate someone else, I will be open to considering additions to that list."

I paused, letting her take all that in, then added with humor and a nose rub against her cheek, "But I will be _very_ picky."

As I drew the tip of my nose one last time along her cheekbone, I felt her writhe under me. Again an impulse came, unbidden and from deep within, to scoop her up and carry her off. Whether up to my own apartment or back to the car and my family home not mattering nearly as much as the act of claiming her.

But again, I ignored it-the impulse, or urge, or overwhelming desire. Instead, I abruptly moved away and, plucking the keys from her weak fingers, opened the door and ushered her into the back entryway ahead of me.

From there it was a short walk to the elevator, one we made in silence. I summoned the elevator, and once in it—following her—pressed the button for her floor. She made no sound, and studied the floor or the tops of her shoes intently.

When the elevator dinged its arrival, we both stood motionless a moment. Finally, she startled and moved quickly out, as I followed behind her. Another silent walk led us to her apartment door, which I unlocked this time with my own keys.

Holding the door open for her, I waved with my arm to indicate she should enter. "Have a seat," I said as I quietly closed the door behind us. She was already half-way to her room door when I spoke, but, obedient once more, she turned and retraced some steps to the sofa.

She stood in front of it, clasping her backpack against her chest with both arms crossed in front of her. Still looking down; still trembling. Then she sat gingerly, on its very edge, obviously braced for something horrible directed her way. How badly I wanted to take her in my arms in that moment.

_Patience,_ I told myself. _Be patient, Edward, and don't scare her. If you show her your full intentions now, she'll be horrified, and want nothing more to do with you. Give her a chance to trust you first, before you ask more of her than other men would do. _

Not all of me agreed with this advice from my rational mind, and no part of me liked it. But I followed it.

So I sat down next to her on the sofa, but kept a careful distance between us. Leaning in towards her, I let my clasped hands hang between my knees, on red alert for unauthorized forays into her personal space.

Striving for middle-of-the-road rationality, and figuring I could buy some time keeping her safe indirectly by using Alice as a smokescreen, I said, "Here's the deal. When you're out late, Alice is either going to be up late waiting to see that you get home safely, or left more vulnerable than necessary because I'm out escorting you…not to mention she can't use the deadbolt and chain when you're not here."

This all seemed logical enough, but Isabella still wasn't looking at me, and the trembling had not abated—it had gotten worse. _Get this over with quickly!_ some part of me yelled inside.

I tried. "So, as long as you're living here, I have to ask you to keep to Alice's curfew."

I paused, expecting an argument. After all, what I was suggesting was borderline outrageous. I knew Carlisle and Esme had put no such restrictions on her in the agreement they had drawn up with Bella, and I knew that most college students would consider a nine p.m. curfew an intolerably onerous limitation on their social lives and study habits. I was pretty sure I could pressure her into accepting it, but I expected a fight.

I didn't get one. Indeed, I didn't get any response at all; her head just sunk further towards her chest, her shoulders caving too.

I was getting worried. _Wrap it up!_ my inner crisis manager dictated again. Out loud, I said, "All right, that's enough for tonight. You've got to be exhausted. I'll check in with you tomorrow to see if you have any questions."

Still no answer. I lowered my head, trying to capture her gaze. I didn't succeed, but I did see tears spilling down her cheeks.

_Shit!_ all inner voices said in unison. Shortly followed by, _What do I do?!_

I had no idea. The part of me that was full of strong opinions on what to do with Isabella was pissed as hell at being so completely ignored and overruled earlier, and so told the rest of me to figure it out my damn self. In addition to being mildly concerned over my apparent recent development of multiple personalities, the rest of me was also completely clueless as to how to accomplish the given task, seeing as Isabella's behavior was now well outside all my previous categories of emotional experience and social interaction.

Finally, I made do with a quick peck on her cheek and a hasty exit, reiterating my promise to see her the next day as I let myself out the door. Thinking of an immediate potential problem, I held the door open and asked, "You don't work tomorrow night, do you?"

She still wasn't looking at me, but I knew she had heard me because she slowly shook her head back and forth. "Good," I said, relieved. I felt less relieved when I heard the small sob that escaped her then.

Quickly I resumed my exit, saying "Get some sleep, Sweetheart; good night," before closing the door carefully behind me and locking it, my own hands trembling from the effect of a very guilty conscience.

I hated so much knowing that I had not only made my sweet girl cry, but had left her to cry alone, that I didn't even wait to hear the chain put on, but speed-walked to the stairwell to try and distance myself from my extremely poor showing with the girl I was growing to love. It didn't help. Nor did racing up the stairs to my depressingly-empty apartment; nor did my final attempt at half-hearted perusal of the damn article I still hadn't read for tomorrow.

Distraction from my guilt and frustration was hopeless, as was concentration, so I most uncharacteristically gave up and went to bed. I managed to fall asleep, but was haunted by terrible dreams, nightmares in which over and over again I had to watch Isabella walk away from me, crying, while I was unable to move from the spot where I stood rooted, and equally unable to raise my voice to reach her. It was excruciating.

Mercifully, the morning eventually came, and I was up and in the shower seconds after my alarm sounded—no cheerful morning run that day. Hurrying downstairs to the girls' apartment, the bag with last night's leftover muffin in one hand, my laptop case over my shoulder, I let myself in to their apartment. My mind was full of my breakfast-preparation plans, so far including scrambled eggs and fruit salad, depending on the contents of their fridge.

But just after opening the door, with a cursory knock and a "It's just me, ladies; good morning," I came face-to-face with a tear-stained Alice, and a sober-looking Jasper seated next to her on the couch.

Surprised and worried, I still managed to close the door carefully (in case Isabella should still be sleeping) before moving in front of them and asking "What's wrong, Allie?", one hand reaching for her shoulder as I asked the question.

"Don't touch me!" she barked back in the shrillest voice I'd ever heard from her. Shocked, I jerked my hand away from her, then turned to a nearby chair and collapsed down.

"What's going on?" I tried again, a nameless but growing fear taking root in my belly.

"Don't you dare pretend that you don't know what's happened!" Alice positively roared at me.

Jasper leaned in to her then, and quietly said, "Alice, sweetheart, let Edward have a chance at explaining himself; he might—"

But she wouldn't let him finish. "I will do no such thing! There is no excuse for what he's done!"

That did it. "Alice, I assure you, I have no idea—"

"I don't want to hear you speak! I've had enough of you, Edward Masen! I thought you loved me! I thought you liked her! I thought—"

But there Alice's rambling broke down into bitter sobs, and I had a moment to interject another request for explanation. This time, I addressed Jasper, who had pulled sobbing Alice into his side, one arm around her shoulders.

"Jasper, I have no idea what she is talking about. What the hell's going on?"

"Bella left, Edward."

"Left?"

"Packed up her things and moved out."

This made no sense. I tried to say so. "But I dropped her off here, just last night after midnight; there's no way—"

"Apparently she packed some bags during the night. She had already loaded up her truck when Alice got out of bed, and came out to the kitchen. Bella was waiting to tell her."

Alice broke in here, raising her head off Jasper's shoulder and almost spitting at me, "She was _crying_ Edward. She'd been crying all night! You made her feel so ashamed! You made her think she wasn't good enough for me! How could you?!"

My eyes widened as I began to get a sense of what had happened here. "Oh, shit," I breathed out.

"Yes, Edward, complete shit," Alice said back, and I knew then the depth of her fury with me. Never had I heard Alice swear like that before.

Leaning back in the chair so that my head rested against it and my eyes could study the ceiling while my brain raced to comprehend this foreign situation, I felt with relief all parts of me coming back together, with newfound clarity.

As I regained access to the part of me that had so forcefully tried to spur me into taking off with Isabella last night, I understood with awe and painful wonder just how vulnerable she was. Jettisoning herself completely out of a situation in which the slightest suggestion was made that she may need to change her behavior made perfect sense when I really thought through the implications of her believing herself to be bad, while also being incapable of actually acting that way.

I had sensed her shame, and had witnessed the ease with which she accepted guilt, but not seeing any remotely rational reason for her to be burdened with such feelings, I had written them off. Believing them to be idle, though self-destructive fantasies of Isabella's clearly overburdened psyche, I had failed to understand –or most of me had—how powerfully those emotions would determine her actions, and reactions to me.

Swearing never to repeat the mistake, of expecting her to react with selfish petulance rather than self-abasement to any interpersonal guilt, however subtle and mild, that I recklessly applied to her, I then spared a moment to wonder why I had been so willfully clueless with her the preceding night. Why hadn't I acted on my instincts? I had thought more of my independent nature than that.

Puzzled, and unspeakably displeased with my profound failure right at the start of the new relationship I intended to have with my future wife, I nevertheless forced my attention away from the question for the time being. I knew I would obsessively contemplate my actions later, but for the moment merely resolved never to allow conventional expectations to overrule my gut instinct on how to treat Isabella, ever again.

Mental crisis over, I sat back up, energized and arrogantly ready to put everything back to rights. I was confident I could, and would, but I wasn't going to be comfortable until I had my hands on Isabella again, that was also certain.

First on the agenda was managing Alice. I would have been hurt in her extreme censure of me, without giving me time for explanation or defense, if it weren't for both my need to get to Isabella as soon as possible, and my understanding of the extreme protective instincts that my girl could draw out in other people. Indeed, after recovering from the uncharacteristic aggression of Alice's attack, I quickly came to appreciate it and feel grateful to Alice for this clear sign of her ability to love my Isabella as a sister.

Leaning in towards her, though being careful to remain just outside the possible landing zone of her clenched up little fist, I said, "Allie. I fucked up. But you have to believe, not just for my sake but more importantly for Bella's, that I didn't mean her any harm. Or you, of course, but I know you trust my love for you more than that."

I was playing slightly dirty with that statement, but I didn't care. It had the desired effect. Alice relaxed her angry posture and started to cry.

"But Edward, how could you—"

I didn't let her finish. "Allie, I was trying to use her liking for you as a tool, to get her to be more careful with herself. It had nothing to do with you. _Your_ safety was never a question, nor will it be, as long as I'm around. But _her _safety…surely you've noticed, Al, how reckless she can be with herself?"

Silent and looking appropriately chastised, Alice nodded, tears streaming.

"Well, I was trying to avoid a more drastic intervention by using you as an excuse for asking her to make better choices for herself. It was only meant to be temporary, and I see now why it wasn't ever going to work, and I am unspeakably sorry for making such a dangerous mistake."

My own voice was threaded with intense emotion now, as I so clearly spoke the truth of my heart in apologizing, something I rarely do, and usually with much distaste. But now, my regret and remorse rolled off my tongue so easily, because my pride had finally found its comeuppance in the desire for someone else's well-being. Carlisle would be pleased.

Alice had given up all vestiges of her fury, and had turned and collapsed into Jasper's hold, sobbing. I recognized her tears now as the healing tears of remorse and release from emotional intensity, so I was calm as I started rubbing her back and addressed myself to Jasper.

"Do you have any idea where she's gone?"

I was surprised to see Jasper's face flush, and his eyes drop to the ground by my feet. He cleared his throat as I waited for an answer, then said, "Well, all we know for sure is that her truck's gone. She didn't say more than that she was leaving, and would find someplace else to stay and come back for her furniture at a convenient time, when she said good-bye to Alice."

"She was so sorry! She kept apologizing to me! And saying she would keep paying rent, and I tried to tell her I didn't want her to go, but she started crying, and got all terrified looking, and just ran out the door! What did I do, Edward? What did I do wrong?" Alice broke in.

"Allie, you didn't do anything wrong, sweetheart," I said reassuringly to her. "I accidentally put her in a position she couldn't handle, and she ran away. Simple as that. Nothing for you to worry about, or feel guilty over—but think hard. Didn't she say anything about where she was going next? Did she mention classes?"

"Only that she couldn't keep meeting me and Jasper for lunch. She said she couldn't afford it, and I felt so bad! I never even thought—"

"Alice, breathe. Try to remember. She didn't say where she was driving to? Was she going home to Forks?"

Alice calmed, then grimaced a little, furrowing her eyebrows, obviously trying to recollect the conversation. "I don't think so," she said slowly. "She didn't say exactly, but I got the impression she was going someplace else, here." There was a pause, and Alice suggested, "Maybe she's going to stay at a friend's?"

I smiled kindly at her, but disabused her of that notion. "Are you aware of any friends that she's made already, outside of you and Jasper?"

Alice's face fell as she shook her head "No."

Here Jasper cleared his throat again. "Edward. I may have…inadvertently given her an idea about where to run off to."

I raised my eyebrows at him, curious and surprised to think something of his life may have been relevant to hers. "Do tell."

"Well, I got here to Seattle the week before school started, just to find out there'd been an administrative screw-up in my financial aid award. I had made arrangements over the summer with my new landlord to give me until I arrived on campus and had cashed my student loan check to pay the balance on my security deposit and my first month's rent, but when there wasn't a loan check available to me, I wasn't able to make up the difference. Basically, I was screwed." Jasper was telling the story more easily as he went along; obviously embarrassed at first to have to admit his financial vulnerability to me and to Alice, he now seemed relieved to get it off his chest.

"I looked around for someplace cheap to stay while I got it sorted out, or at least a place to park my car so I could sleep there, and I found this dive motel down at the edge of the university district, towards downtown. It wasn't pretty, and I wouldn't want any young female I cared about staying there, but the rooms were surprisingly clean, and the price was right."

"And you told Bella about this place?"

"Yeah. When Alice was a couple minutes late getting to lunch yesterday, Bella asked me how I liked it here in Seattle so far, and I told her it was looking up after being kind of a rough start. I never thought—"

I had the crucial information about my girl's likely whereabouts, and now needed to move, immediately, so I cut Jasper off. "We're all learning to be more circumspect around our Isabella. You couldn't have known she would take your story as a travel guide," I offered quickly as solace for his obvious guilt, sitting up straight as I did so. "I take it you remember where this motel is?"

Jasper nodded, taking the hint, and leaned in to say something quietly to Alice before jumping up and joining me on my way to the door.

I had my hand on the door handle when Alice called tremulously after me, "Edward? I called Mom and Dad this morning, when I was so mad at you? They're coming for lunch," Alice finished, guilt dripping from her words.

"Sounds great, Alice," I easily replied. "We'll be needing to talk anyway about taking better care of Bella. See you later," and I swung out the door with Jasper following behind me, intent on tracking down and bringing home my girl. _Run all you want, Isabella,_ I thought. _You'll just find out:_ _I run faster._


	5. Chapter 5

**So often, I have the sense that I could get important things—usually long overdue important things—done if only I had the time, and more importantly, the ****_emotional space_**** to do them. If other obligations, like daundry and lishes [not typos; my younger son and I joke that since dishes and laundry have to be worked on every day, we should just call them "daundry," or "lishes," because they're part of the same organic household process that's as necessary to communal life as breathing with a beating heart is to our bodies], for instance, and definitely childcare and meal prep, could just hold on; hold off; go away for a while. **

**And there is truth to this. As I prove to myself, every time (oh so rarely) the boys go away for a weekend day with their dad and I am alone, with no other pressing responsibilities for 8 hours or so. But most of the time, that is not my life, and so most of the time, I am dancing from one partially-done task to another, and sometimes, that's okay. **

**When is it not okay? When does it hurt? When the things going undone are important, but impossible to accomplish without mental energy and clarity. Like writing the fanfiction I've started, and that other people are now emotionally invested in; or planning and preparing nurturing meals; or working on reading interventions; or sending heartfelt thank-you's for kindnesses experienced and received. Not to mention reaching out to those around me in need or in pain, and figuring out how I can be part of the global solution to modern-day slavery, and persistent injustice, and violent despair. How do I make time for all these important endeavors, when just the basics take so much time, and so much out of me? **

**I think the answer is I cut down on the time I spend suffering. I'm laughing as I write this conclusion, which bodes well for my ability to do just that. I mean, my tv watching is already almost nil, and I only read as much of the newspaper as I need to so as not to be wholly ignorant. Staring off into space from time to time is a nonnegotiable, as is giving Bella-the-dog belly-rubs. And of course, loving children—mine and others—is non-negotiable too. **

**Which means I'm going to have to do a whole lot less crying, grieving and desperate fearing/self-hating if I am ever going to begin to accomplish what I hope for in terms of my expression of love towards the rest of the world. No matter what my eventually-to-be ex-husband (his choice) or my emotionally-wounded mother or any other of the cast of characters in my world do, or don't do. **

**I think that might be the new secret solution to my life's dilemmas: developing the resilience to other people's emotions that I was born without in choosing (radical concept, that) my own emotional outlook, while still holding on to the ability to use others' emotions to inform and educate and occasionally alarm me. That's what I need! A naming ability, a tag system, whereby the emotions flowing by get identified as "mine" and "not mine," and those that are not mine are merely observed and witnessed but not acted on. That would help.**

**Of course, there will still be a, to phrase it poetically, "butt-load" of emotions that are mine, all mine, and what do I do about those? Absolutely nothing. Let those flow by too. Register their input, and their wisdom, but don't act on them, for their own sake. Why? Because I don't have time. If I'm going to love remotely well, doing so is ALL I HAVE TIME FOR. Ever. Occasionally, that includes loving myself well, when I need TLC too. But mostly, like the Carly Simon song used in those old pain med commercials, "I haven't got time for the pain," or the anger, or even the pride and self-congratulation when those come along too. **

**That's very Zen of me, presuming I ever manage the feat I describe in any long-term sort of way, but I think it's different too. And that difference is why I'm very skeptical of monks, at least the ones in orange robes. [I'm skeptical of the monks in brown because of their presumed adherence to a female-hating mythology of power and oppression, emotional and otherwise.] Because the reason I avoid experiencing emotion, when I manage to do this, now and in the future, isn't because emotions aren't real, or true, or meaningful. They are all of these things, as well as rich and excruciating and wonderful. But they aren't very ****_practical,_**** and when one is working with a mortal body and a very long list of hurts in the world that need healing, practical is highly important. **

**So indulging in emotional experience becomes just that—an indulgence, and one that detracts from an important goal of living, or of my living anyway: ameliorating others' suffering. But it's because of emotional experience, and empathy, that I've developed that goal, and it's through the emotional intelligence I have and hope to develop that I stand any chance of beginning to meet that goal, so it's not that I'm at war with emotion. I'm just looking to channel it, to master it, to ****_ride_**** it in such a way that other people are lifted out of its worst vortexes and dead spots and back into the sunshine and starry nights of non-distressed human experience. Why? Because love matters, and love lasts, and love compels this choice. There is no other answer. And that fact=God, whether as proof of some divine existence, or just as a shorthand summary of love's importance and influence in life.**

**So, I still don't know exactly how to choose what to do with the next minute of my life, and the one after that; or how to follow-through with the choice even when it scares me; or how to live with the sadness and frustration of the things that go undone. But I guess I better get used to all that uncertainty, because I think that's part of being mortal, and wishing not to piss one's life away—the combination implies hard choices, of an unrelenting nature. **

**That's why I've taken such comfort, and am glad I can feel the future promise of continued comfort, of being led from within—by my intuition, or by God's voice, as I imagine and believe it to be.**

**Thank you, Loving Power in the Universe, for guiding me through this time of endings, and for surrounding me with people who love me, even when they're hurting me. And when I am hurting them. I hesitate to pray to be a conduit of your peace and love this week, because I'm tired, and I really want to do some housekeeping around here. But I think I know better than to say that out loud. So do with me what you will, God—I know you will anyway. And I'll try not to fight it too hard, but to use the gifts you've given me to loving purpose. **

**Finally, as proof that I've been working on this update quite a while…here's my original author's note: "Happy Holidays!" to those of you who enjoy them, and a heart-felt "Hang in there!" to those of you who, like me, would strongly prefer it be January 2****nd**** right now…excepting the pleasure of witnessing my sons' enthusiasm for aspects of the season. And here's hoping their mother losing her emotional $#!+ is ****_not_**** an aspect of this year's celebration [update: oops, too late]—although it could make an interesting author's note for the next chapter, so that's a silver lining, at least for me.**

**As always, thanks to Ms. Meyer for the ample emotional playing field she created, and makes so openly available to the rest of us. And also as always, my loving best wishes to, and my thanks for, you.**

**xoxo liza**

**p.s. This update is for **usernamewithhelduntilherperm issionisgranted**, and anyone else who, like us, is hurting today. May your pain be meaningful, and your joy be worth the suffering. Blessings to you.**

XXXXXX

It took everything I had to get to my room and close the door before breaking down. "He doesn't want me; he doesn't want me!" I kept repeating in my head, until finally it started coming out in whispers, and then in moans—after I heard the faint echoes of his footsteps in the apartment above, obviously oblivious—or indifferent—to my suffering.

_Of course he doesn't want you, you stupid b-! _Even in my thoughts, I shied away from the profanity, but I meant the word. In my heart.

The shame and self-hatred rose like an ocean tide, a full-moon, storm-system, volcanic activity rush over all thoughts and memories and vague notions of comfort or stability. I was awash in the pain, and worse, undone by the shame. How could I, Isabella Marie Swan, for even _one second_ have allowed myself to imagine that Edward Masen…_wanted_ me?

It was too ridiculous to contemplate, and yet, I'd done that. I'd done more than that; I'd imagined…I couldn't allow myself to remember what I had imagined with any precision; it hurt too much. So as the tears came and the sobs tore through my body—as quietly as possible given my roommate asleep in the room next to mine—I locked down all thoughts and focused only on action.

At first, the action was mainly rocking back and forth while huddled, knees to chest, on the floor, and occasionally pinching or slapping myself when the pain demanded it. I thought longingly about cutting, but couldn't work up the courage to risk the unpleasant physical sensation, the blood, or the scars.

Instead I grabbed my hair at the roots and pulled, hard—until more tears came. Next I paced, then threw myself on the bed and buried myself in my pillows, curling up as small as possible. Still not able to tolerate continued existence, I flung myself out of the bed and ran to my closet, opening it so fast the doorknob slammed against the wall.

I paused for a moment; in the middle of the night the sound seemed extremely loud, and I braced myself for complaints or inquiry from the side, or from below, or…No. Not from above. Don't think about above.

When all remained still and silent, I dove into the closet, a little calmer now that a manageable course of action had occurred to me. Of course! It was so obvious, I almost laughed, though without any humor; there was nothing but pain here for me now.

So I would leave. It was the only responsible thing to do, given my circumstances, and the expectations here. _His_ expectations. For Alice. For taking care of Alice.

I crouched and bent over, clutching an arm around my waist as if I could stop the horrible pain of jealousy and sadness from eviscerating me from the inside. I couldn't.

_Why not me?_ was all I could think. But it was a lie. I knew it was a lie as I thought it. I knew, _I know_ why not me. I am weak; I am wrong; I am bad.

I chanted that to myself, a mantra of shame, _I am weak; I am wrong; I am bad, _as I pulled out my suitcase and duffel bag and started throwing clothes in from my dresser. _I am weak; I am wrong; I am bad. _Shoes; toiletries; my few reference books…_I am weak; I am wrong; I am bad. _I looked around the room, and saw the framed photographs on top of my dresser. _I am weak; I am wrong; I am bad. _I picked up the one of my family from my high school graduation-**_I am weak; I am wrong; I am bad_**_—_and then the one of my friends from junior year, before everything had changed—**_I am weak; I am wrong; I am bad! _**

Then I quickly laid those back on my dresser, face down, (_I am weak; I am wrong; I am bad),_ and grabbed the only photo that really mattered: the one of me and my Grandma Swan when I was little, and she would take me on her lap in her rocking chair and knit while I traced my finger gently along the needles. The strokes had taken her speech by then, and much of her voluntary movement, but somehow, miraculously, her ability to knit remained. Sure, it was a little uneven, and lumpy, and went on forever because she couldn't remember how to finish the scarf she had started for me before the last stroke claimed her independence. Well, the second-to-the-last stroke.

I allowed one tear to fall in remembrance of her, of her love for me, and of the warmth and security I had known in her arms, then carefully wrapped the solitary frame in a shirt and stuffed it in the middle of the suitcase, which I then forced closed and latched shut. I may be weak and wrong and bad, but I was doing something about it now, so I was okay with it again.

You get used to it, over time; the trick is to make sure you don't expect anything else from the people around you other than reminding you of your inadequacy. Start expecting more, and life quickly gets unbearable, as it just had for me. I was proud and relieved at my ability to find a way out of the emotional trap Edward Masen had set for me, and to think his name now with absolutely no hopeful feelings in my heart.

Well, almost none.

All packed, I set my alarm for early in the morning, just a couple hours later than the time was already, and curled up under the blanket on my bed, trying to sleep. I didn't manage anything more than short drifting-offs, after which I would startle awake in panic each time, searching in the half-darkness (my desk lamp was still on) for a clue to the fear. Seeing my suitcase, or my duffel, packed and ready for me to move out of the safest place I'd known for the short few days it'd been that, I remembered. Then, writhing in sadness again, I would turn back over, and recite the alphabet or song lyrics, trying desperately to distract myself from thinking about what I would do—what I had to do—in the morning.

Finally, I gave up and got out of bed a few minutes before the alarm was set to go off. I was already dressed, not having gotten undressed the night before, and having changed shirts while packing so that I could go to work that afternoon and be presentable enough. I combed through my hair, using the comb from my purse, and refastened my pony-tail, then slung the duffel over my shoulder and picked up the suitcase and walked out to my truck, locking them both into my cab.

Turning around, I surveyed the dark building; no other apartment lights were visible that early besides the one burning in my own room. I felt the bleak aloneness for a moment, appreciating its match of my emotional state even as I hated its existence, and my own existence too.

Then, I straightened my shoulders and marched back in, taking a seat at the kitchen table in my—no, now Alice's only—apartment, and waited for her to get up so I could say good-bye.

I had thought about just leaving her a note; I had even started to write one. But the coldness of it stopped me from finishing, and had me throwing it away and resolving to tell her in person instead. That was the least I could do. Besides, I couldn't risk any misunderstanding, or misplacement of my note and the information it contained. I needed to know I was done here, and wouldn't be followed in painful ways by Edward Masen's concern for his cousin's well-being. Or Alice's kindness towards me.

So I sat at the table, my backpack on the floor next to me, trying to do my calculus homework. I wasn't having much success, though I had managed to complete two problems, with one of them matching the answer in the back and one of them not, when I heard the alarm beeping in Alice's room, followed by the music from her i-pod. A few minutes later and a sleepy Alice shuffled out, heading for the fancy coffee-maker she'd invited me to try using but which I had never had the chance to, and now never would.

She had pulled one of the single-serving containers out of the beautiful pottery jar where she kept them and placed it inside the machine, hitting a button and watching her gourmet coffee materialize, when she finally turned towards me sitting at the kitchen table, biting my lip as I shyly watched her, not knowing how to start this conversation.

"Bella!" she said, starting it for me. "You're up early! What's wrong; couldn't you sleep?"

I smiled at her; she was so kind. I would miss her friendly concern. Tears started forming so I bit my lip harder, trying to keep them at bay. "Um, I need to talk to you," I finally got out.

Alice smiled and said, "Okay," as she pulled out the chair next to mine. "What's wrong, Bella? Has something happened in your family?"

I laughed at that, a little bitterly. I couldn't help it. My family wasn't like hers; there wasn't anything they could do, or not do, at this point that would have me up at this hour, waiting to talk to her like this. "No, it isn't my family," I said, forgetting for the moment that it was hers.

Alice was looking around me for clues to explain my unusually early appearance, and her eyes alighted on my calculus text with an air of understanding. "Oh, that darn calculus class. I wish you'd let me ask Edward to help you with that. He's really good at math and sci-"

The mention of his name was exactly the help I needed to get this conversation moving, and then over with as soon as possible. "Um, Alice?" I interrupted. "It's kind of about Edward that I need to talk to you."

I frowned a little, that sentence not having made a lot of sense, and Alice mirrored me, tilting her head in confusion and interest. "What about Edward?" she asked as I took a moment to try to figure out how to explain.

"Well," I searched for the words and found myself closing my eyes so I could get them, "you see, he explained to me how my late-night work hours aren't safe, or good, for you." There. That was an important piece of what I had to say, and I had gotten it out clearly.

I opened my eyes to check Alice's reaction. Her jaw had dropped and her brows were still furrowed, and she wasn't responding with any words—which was unusual for Alice.

I jumped at the opening and finished what I had planned on saying. "And unfortunately, I can't change my work hours, because it's the only time I have available, and I need the money. So…" I bit my lip and took a huge breath as I tried to find the courage to make the final break.

It came in one big rush: "I-have-to-leave-I'm-so-sorry-I'll-keep-paying-rent-and-come-back-for-my-furniture-when-I've-found-someplace-else-to-live-I'm-sorry." The rest of the breath came out in a sigh as my shoulders relaxed and my body caved a bit at the relief of getting that all said.

Then, the relief quickly replaced by the urgent desire to get out of there, now that I'd broken things and couldn't go back, I jumped up, gathered my calculus materials and shoved them in my backpack, then slung my backpack over my shoulder as I pushed in the chair. Looking at Alice, who was still silent, I saw her mind working behind her eyes, and she didn't look pleased.

"Thank you, Alice," I said quietly. "I really;" this part was hard. I tried again. "I really enjoyed being your roommate, and whoever moves in next is really lucky. I'm sorry—"

Alice finally found her voice and interrupted me then, shouting "No!" We both startled at the noise. Then I started backing towards the front door as she moved towards me, concern and compassion in her voice, "Bella, there's no need for you to move out! Please, don't move out! I _like_ you! My parents like you! I'm sure there's been some sort of misunderstanding…"

I had to move quickly before she talked me into staying. I couldn't face the shame of seeing her cousin again, while still living under the Cullen roof. From somewhere deep inside, my usually absent sense of self-preservation kicked in and I walked towards the door, talking to Alice over my shoulder. "No, Alice, he was really clear about it, and I understand. It makes sense." It made all the sense in the world; what hadn't made sense was how I'd gotten lucky enough to be here in the first place.

"No, it doesn't—" she got out, before I interrupted her again.

"Yes, it does. It isn't safe for you, having a roommate that's out all hours of the night, and I don't want to cause any problems. I like you too much to do that." I'd gotten to the door and had my hand on the handle, so allowed myself to turn around, and face her.

"I left my key on the kitchen table," I said, calmly, so calmly. "Please tell Jasper good-bye for me, and thanks for being so nice."

Alice started to cry. "But Bella, it doesn't bother me any that you work late! Why would that be a problem? You don't have a stupid curfew to worry about—"

I couldn't hear any more comparisons between my life and hers, so I reached out and hugged her, making her stop talking for a moment as she hugged me back. "I have to go, Allie," I said after a few moments, as I firmly pulled away. "Your cousin will help you find somebody else; someone who will be better for you," I got out as I opened the door. I had been too undone last night to go back and put the second lock on after Edward left, and saw the truth of what he had said underscored in that fact. I wasn't good for Alice; I wasn't good enough to be here anymore.

Alice reached her hand out to me and said, "Wait, Bella—"

But I couldn't wait any longer. Just before I ran for the stairs, I said, "Thanks, Alice; thanks for everything." Then I flew, away from the all-too-familiar shame of not being good enough, and the equally-familiar pain of not being wanted. Or at least, not wanted enough to override my inadequacies.

I didn't stop until I was at my truck, climbing quickly into the cab and starting the engine, backing with less care than usual out of my spot, and driving out of the lot before any Cullen—or Masen—could have anything more to say about it. It wasn't until I was on University Avenue, with the few other vehicles out this early in the morning, that my heart started slowing down a little.

I knew where I was heading: to the cheap motel Jasper had told me about at lunch on Monday. He had told me its general location, and that, though it looked seedy and disreputable from the outside, it was really clean inside. And cheap. That was the important part.

I started to calculate how much I would have left to spend on housing after still paying my share of the rent to Alice, but quickly stopped as I realized how tight of a budget I would be on from here on out. Down to two meals a day, for sure. Peanut butter sandwiches mostly, and canned soup (on sale), and lots and lots of pancakes, and pasta. Eggs. Cheap, almost-rotten apples. Off-brand diet soda. I'd live, and I'd live better than lots of people in the world—it helps to remember that. But it wouldn't be particularly cheerful.

But then I wasn't particularly cheerful. So that was okay. What wouldn't be okay was not finding a place to stay, or at least to park my truck. I couIdn't afford the UW lots, that was for certain.

Very carefully, I avoided thinking about anything besides the words Jasper had used to describe the location of the motel. I was still driving down University, well past campus now, and swiveling my head trying to catch sight of it, or someplace else I could stay. I noted the parking lot for a rundown grocery store, and wondered while I waited for a light to turn green if they enforced the towing rules they had posted.

I saw the skyscrapers of downtown Seattle coming into view, closer than before, as I turned a corner, and narrowly avoided pulling onto a freeway entrance ramp. Someone behind me honked as I swerved out of the right lane, and I cringed, waving apologetically in front of my rear-view mirror as I checked to see that no angry driver was following me down the narrow street. Passing under the freeway, I came out into a more industrial area, high chain-link fences on either side of the road around factories or warehouses of one kind or another. Jasper hadn't mentioned chain-link fences, and I was getting nervous.

I had just decided to turn around and try another street, when the large letters "TEL" appeared from behind the building on my left. Hope growing, I went through the intersection instead of making a U-turn, and indeed found a motel tucked in between two industrial sites. It appeared to be in operation, because the lot was half-full, though the lights in the office were not on.

I slowed and signaled, then turned and pulled farther into the lot than I normally would, my usual fear of accidentally hitting a parked car overridden by my fear of being on the fringes of this small outpost of community in the middle of impersonal and vaguely threatening industry. As carefully as I could, I parked the truck.

Finally, after locking and double-checking my door, and then looking back over my shoulders every couple of seconds as I went, I walked to the door of the motel office. It was locked, and a small sign with hand-stenciled letters indicated it wouldn't be opening until 7:00 a.m. There wasn't too long to wait; it was almost 6:40 already, so I went back to the cab and locked myself in until the office opened.

I was carefully not thinking again, this time about anything that had happened in the last 48 hours, as I sat in the driver's seat of my truck, curled up into a ball, my feet on the cracked leather seat, trying to stay warm. I briefly thought about getting out my calculus book and trying to finish the homework assignment, but was too cold and tired to act on the impulse. I longed to run the engine for a few minutes, and warm up, but I was afraid to draw attention to myself with the loud engine, as there were beginning to be signs of life in the industrial sites around me, and in the motel parking lot itself.

First one or two, and then a number of the motel room doors were opening, letting out a stream of men, dressed in everything from suits to ripped blue jeans, who headed to cars in the lots and out onto the sidewalk to catch cabs or the city bus that I just noticed stopped in front of the building on my left. Meanwhile, a small group of rather scantily-clad women had gathered outside the motel office door, while others climbed into a beat-up white van that had parked outside the room doors at the end of the building.

I didn't really understand what was going on, especially with the van (which was driven by a couple of very scary looking men), but I knew I didn't want any of these people going about their morning routine to notice me, so I stayed very still and avoided looking in any direction for long. Indeed, I counted out the last five minutes until 7:00 by staring at the calculus book I finally dragged from my backpack, finding inspiration in my desire to put my conscious awareness anywhere other than where I was.

As I got caught up in working out the last few problems, I actually let 7:00 slip by, and when I put my books away—pleased to have finished the assignment if unable to get the correct answer on a couple of the problems—it was already 7:20, and the crowd outside the office door had disappeared. There was just one woman and one man in there now, besides the man behind the counter, and they were cheerfully holding hands as they finished their business and walked out the door.

I smiled at them as I walked by, carefully avoiding hitting the man with my shoulder as I approached the door they were exiting, and he smiled too, his eyes following me with a little too much interest as I slipped into the office. I tried to shake off the unsettled feeling I had, and approached the office counter with as confident a bearing as I could manage.

It wasn't very confident, I know, because I was biting my lip and couldn't stop or I would start to cry. But somehow I managed a "Hello," and the unsmiling man behind the counter greeted me in return in a way that had me suspicious that he wasn't nearly as gruff as he looked.

"Hello, there. What can I do you for?"

I smiled. This was friendliness. I like friendliness. "Um, I'm looking for a room?"

He became a little less friendly, which surprised me. Shouldn't he be glad for the prospect of renting another room out? Not that it seemed like they had any occupancy issues, but still…

"You a new one?" he asked, eyebrows raised, sounding now every bit as gruff as he looked.

I blanched, and tried not to panic, swallowing vomit. "Um, yes?" I ventured, not sure why he was angry about me being new to his motel, but sad and ashamed to be the object of such obvious displeasure.

"You belong to James?" he almost spat out next.

I was floored. Belong to someone? In my dreams. Slowly I shook my head "No." I had no idea what he was talking about, but I knew I didn't belong to anyone, anyone at all.

His expression lightened just a little, his eyebrows becoming less drawn, his eyes less fierce as he said, "Who then?" There was almost a little tenderness in his voice, and I clung to it.

Closing my eyes, I said, "Nobody," in a small, scratchy voice I barely recognized as my own.

There was silence then, which surprised me, so I opened my eyes to see the man behind the desk looking as surprised as I felt. Then a smile broke on his face, and he laughed. "Honey, you have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?" he asked, his tone one of hearty relief.

I shook my head slowly "No," again, watching him carefully for cues as to what direction his mood would go next. I'd have to leave and try the grocery store parking lot if there was going to be much more stress in this endeavor for me.

But luckily, he seemed satisfied I wasn't whatever problem he thought I was going to be when he got all mad and terse, and instead started in on a motel room spiel I thought would have been the sensible discussion at the beginning. Relieved to finally be in a script I understood, I happily nodded my agreement that I was indeed looking for a room, and hoping for weekly or monthly rates.

He smiled as I nodded at that, and asked again, "Which one, sweetheart; weekly or monthly?"

I started at the "sweetheart," being reminded all of a sudden of the person whose name I was trying desperately not to think, and blushed to realize my mistake. I tried to speak but had to clear my throat before I got out, "Monthly, please."

He said, "Hmmm," as he leaned back against a counter, his arms crossed over his chest as he appraised me. I must have passed his inspection, because next he said, "You interested in working a little to cut down your rate?"

I stepped back once, very surprised to receive such an offer, and not sure what to do with it. Despite the large amount of hours already spoken for in my life, I couldn't help but ask about what could make this new obligation less expensive. "Um, maybe?" I responded, hesitantly, not sure how to be more polite but cringing at my awkward response none the less.

Luckily, the man smiled at me, and said in gentle tones that reminded me of the person I didn't want to be reminded of, "Maybe how, honey?"

I tried to set aside the considerable amount of fatigue and emotional exhaustion and think. Looking at the tiled floor in front of me, I said quietly, "Well, I like the idea of working as part of my rent, but I already work two jobs and am not sure I could manage additional hours. When would you need me? And what would I do?" I tacked on, almost as an afterthought. But as I said it, I was really curious. What did they need help with around here?

I got an immediate answer: "My wife does all the housekeeping, every day, and she's plumb tired. Worn out." My eyes went back up to his face. He had instantly become many degrees less frightening with the admittance of a wife into the discussion; a wife he cared enough about that he noticed she was tired, and worn out.

I nodded sympathetically. Housekeeping is hard work. Even with just one person to look after. I knew this.

He smiled at me. "It's hard to find reliable help willing to come out here."

I nodded again. I could understand that too. It was creepy here; like in another dimension. Not the place to come for a part-time job.

He laughed. It was like he read my mind about the creepiness, but luckily didn't take it personally. "So, if you're stuck living here, you could work here too, and make my wife a happy woman."

I smiled back. I like making people happy. "Okay," I said, too soon I realized, with a blush, as he laughed again at my acquiescence without naming any terms.

"I like you, sweetheart," he said, and I knew the first real relief since…since I couldn't think about when. My smile grew, but I could say nothing, as my heart was full of gratitude and my mind couldn't keep up.

"I'll give you the first room here, the one next to the office," the man—apparently also my new, additional employer said. "But make sure you're in by 8 p.m., you hear? It's not safe here after dark," he added with stern eyebrows and voice again.

I sighed heavily, my shoulders slumping. A curfew again. At least this time it was for my own sake, and I appreciated him, so much, for caring. But I couldn't pretend compliance with this unexpected rule.

Looking down at the floor again, I murmured, "I'm sorry, Sir, but I can't. Be in by 8 I mean." Toeing a chipped spot on a tile, I finished with, "I work 'til midnight at the coffee shop a couple nights a week."

I couldn't bear to look up and see what he made of that. "Which coffee shop?" was his gruff response.

"College Grounds Coffeehouse. By the University," I whispered in reply.

"Hmmmm." The pause was excruciating.

Finally I lifted my head just enough to see what he was doing. What he was doing was staring at me, his eyes narrowed, but in a calculating, not a mean way. Thank goodness. I wouldn't want this man mad at me. I wouldn't want any man mad at me, but this one in particular would make a scary mad.

"You have a car?" he asked.

I nodded, then felt the need to clarify. "A truck, actually," I got out.

He nodded, as if to himself. "Good enough," he said back, absent-mindedly. Then he stood up straight, moving off the back counter. Leaning over the tall front counter, he clasped his hands and gave me a stern look. "Listen, little girl, you have anyone I can call about your being here? Anyone looking after you? Mom or dad? Big brother?"

I cringed when he said, "Big brother," to cap off the easy head-shaking I had started after his first question.

He watched me for another moment, then nodded his head. "Figured as much. You're a stubborn one." He turned away from me and reached for a key on a fob, hanging on the wall behind him. "But I'll get your story eventually, or my wife will, in time," he said as he turned back to me, holding the key out towards me across the countertop. "She's a nosy one, my wife," he said with a smile. "You won't last a day."

I smiled back as I reached for the key. I didn't mind nosy. I rather liked nosy, even though I knew she'd be disappointed with what she'd find. "Okay," I said shyly.

The man laughed again, then, after I'd taken the room key—my room key-he crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels. "Now listen up, sweetheart," he was all business again, but it was friendly business this time, "we have rules here."

I nodded. I can follow rules. I like rules.

"Number one. Anytime you're out after dark, you call me so I can keep the office open until you get home. I'll give you the number. I ever find you out here at night by yourself and without me, I'm calling your folks, no matter how mad you are at them, you understand me?"

I nodded, even though I wasn't mad at all at my parents. I could understand his misunderstanding, and I was just grateful for his interest in my safety.

"Good," he said sternly, then continued, "And you go in and out of your place through the side door that leads into this office, not through the outside door, not ever through the outside door, even during the day. Am I clear?" he asked this time.

This made a little less sense, but was still in the vein of avuncular protection, so I happily nodded again.

"All right then. As for helping out, why don't you just stop by in back whenever you have spare time. When there isn't room cleaning, there's laundry to be pushed through, so my wife will be glad to see you whenever you can join her. Just don't go out to clean rooms by yourself, without me or Donna—that's my wife, see—to keep you company. You understand?"

Again, I nodded.

He let his hands fall and stood up straight. "Well, I expect that's all then. I'll see you later, after you've got your stuff in out of your car." Then he corrected himself, "Truck," with a smile. "I'm glad you're here, sweetheart. It's been getting depressing around here lately."

I smiled back, with a "Thank you," said with all my heart. I could agree that it was depressing around here, but I was so grateful I'd found unexpected friendliness when I'd needed it so much. Turning to go back to my truck and get my things, I suddenly remembered I hadn't paid anything yet.

Quickly, I turned back around and asked, "Don't I need to make a, um, down-payment or something?" I asked shyly.

But the man just laughed and waved me off. "We'll worry about that later, sweetheart. You help my wife out enough, and I won't feel inclined to charge you a nickel. It's not just the work, understand; she's lonely for female companionship. Not so much I can do about that, is there?" and he winked conspiratorily at me, and I laughed.

"No, there isn't," I easily agreed. "I'll go get my things?" I half-asked and half-stated, and was glad to see him nod his agreement. "Be back in a minute," I said, then raced out the door.

Back in the parking lot, I jogged to my truck, glad to see the place had mostly emptied out. A few beat-up old cars remained, besides my truck, which for once didn't look the least bit out of place. The man I had nearly knocked shoulders with going into the office was standing outside the driver's side door of one of the cars, the nicest one of the bunch, with the pretty girl with heavy eye make-up already in the front seat. I noticed this out of the corner of my eye, and tried hard not to feel like he was watching me. But I sped up just the same, and felt relieved as I passed behind the bulk of the truck's front in order to unlock the passenger side and get my bags.

After pulling them out and carefully re-locking the truck door, I headed back to the motel office, a little slower with the additional weight. My head was down this time, and I was unprepared for running smack into someone. I said "Oof," but the stranger I collided with said nothing, except to steady me with a hand to one elbow; a hand that was left there, in my personal space.

I knew a moment's desperate hope as I slowly raised my head, but it was smashed and incinerated by gut-churning fear as I lifted my eyes enough to see that man—that creepy, watching-me man—instead of…well, instead of someone I trusted.

My eyes went wide at the frankly appraising look he was giving me, and though I opened my mouth to issue a polite apology for running into him, no sound came out. I tried to back away, but he didn't let me, tightening his grip on my elbow, enough so that it hurt.

"Who you here with, sweetheart?" the man leered at me, and that word—which had none of the warmth or safety that I had felt with the other two men I had recently heard it from, but rather an enormous amount of threat, a promised violence that I understood enough to be certain that I didn't want to know one more thing about it—slid down my spine like ice. I twisted, more visibly, my whole torso turning trying to free myself from the man's grip, and as he tightened it even more I thought about screaming, and dropping my bags and trying to run for it.

Luckily I didn't have to do either, because just then the motel manager came storming out of his office, his attitude having moved far beyond gruff and into extremely threatening, and angry. "Get your filthy hands off of her!" he spat out as he grabbed the man holding onto me with one hand behind the man's neck, and with his other hand pried the man's fingers off my arm and brought the offending hand sharply up and behind the man's own back.

I heard a "Fuck!" from my assailant as he doubled-over, from the weight of the motel manager on his back, but also from the pain, I'm guessing. His arm was moving in ways it really shouldn't.

"You put your hand on her again and you lose the hand, you understand me?" my savior said with certainty in his tone.

I stood by watching, in shock, as the creepy man said "God, yes! Now let go! Please!" I think he might have been crying.

"I'm letting go, you piece of shit, but only so you can go tell that worthless boss of yours that I'm done taking his business. You hear me?" he asked as he let go of the man with a shove, making him stumble, the man just catching himself before standing bent-over, cradling his injured arm.

"Yeah, all right, I got the message," the man said as he backed away; but after a few steps—at safe running distance, maybe—he stood a little straighter, and said with a cocky tone, "James isn't going to like what you have to say, though." Then he turned and looked again at me, with a malice, and an intention, that chilled me to the bone. "Or what you interrupted." I cowered, shrinking into the motel manager's personal space, as the scary man spit on the sidewalk, then said, "You can bet on that," and half-turned to walk away.

"I am betting on that, you little prick!" the manager roared after him. "You or any other of James' dogs show your faces here again, and I'm calling vice myself."

But the man just laughed, and said, "You do that. Say 'Hi' to Agent Martin for us. The boss would like that." And then, under his breath but so that we could hear, said, "Stupid fuck just signed his death warrant," as he climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door.

After the disgruntled former motel client squealed away out of the lot, I let out a breath and turned to face the man who had saved me from…I didn't know what, but something really bad.

He was deflating too, and laughed humorlessly as he looked at me. "Well, little girl, you sure have made life more interesting around here, mighty quick."

My mouth dropped, feeling shocked at the claim that I had had anything to do with the dramatic scene that had just unfolded, but before I could start in on apologizing, he looked away from me and followed up with, "About damn time, though. About damn time."

Then, after a couple of quiet moments when we both just stood there, in companionable silence, he drew himself up and said, "I've got to head on in and do something I should have done a long time ago. Make it safer here for you, and for all those other girls too."

I didn't know what other girls he was talking about exactly, but I figured maybe the ones who looked a little underdressed and cold, standing around in front of his office before it opened this morning. Or maybe he meant the ones piling into that scary van. Hopefully he meant all of them, because they had all seemed like they could use some safety in their lives.

I didn't ask for clarification, but just nodded, then impulsively grabbed him around the middle in a huge hug. He went still for a moment, and I almost pulled away in embarrassment before he hugged me back. It was lovely, and he held the back of my head with his large hand and leaned down and kissed the top of my head before he pulled away, and I stood up straight again, wiping my eyes with the back of my hands, of course. I was surprised to notice him doing the same thing.

I looked away quickly, and doing so caught sight of the motel office clock through the window, and realized I was running close to being late for math class. Again. This thought scared me enough to get me moving, so I shyly said to my protector and newfound friend, "I have to go to school; I'll be late."

He smiled, reaching out and gently taking my luggage from my hands, throwing my duffel easily over his shoulder and waving me off, saying "Be careful. I'll watch you from here."

I felt his eyes on me all the way to the bus stop, and even while I waited there, until a city bus came along and I was duly swallowed up with all the other people heading, bleary-eyed, into campus for the day. As I took a seat by a window half-way down the bus, I thought I saw a familiar, battered-looking red Datsun pulling into the motel lot, and imagined for one ridiculous moment that I recognized the people inside. The pain of that imagining pulled me out of my contemplation of all that had happened over the last few hours of my suddenly-eventful life, and I quickly moved to studying the dirty bus floor and the feet moving against it in defense against far too much emotion to experience in a public place.

And so I arrived on campus, in a state of urgent combat against all thought and feeling, but on time for math class. It was a small victory, but I took it. As I marched towards the classroom building from the street, I started imagining things again, twice spying from the back the same man with unruly, wavy blonde hair and thinking it was Jasper—although what Jasper would be doing hanging around the undergraduate math and physical sciences building I had no rational explanation for.

Shaking my head at my overactive imagination, I opened the door to the building and headed down the right hallway, only to imagine I caught a glimpse of Ed—someone I knew at the end of it.

Growing desperate now to contain my traitorous psyche and its apparent willingness to undo me with its heedless fantasies foisted on my conscious mind, I pulled open the door to my classroom and nearly ran in. I chose a seat as far to the back of the room as I could get, moving in a few seats towards the middle so that I could hopefully cower behind a particularly tall boy sitting a couple rows ahead.

I had just gotten my backpack settled on the floor and my jacket hung across the back of my chair, and slid my body into its spot on the seat, when the classroom door opened again and Edward Masen walked in.

Edward paused at the doorway, scanning the classroom for somebody (for me! some exultant part of me cheered, but the rest of me went for her with strangling hands and a billy club). While I was inwardly engaged in the brutal containment of foolish and self-destructive hope, Edward's eyes alighted on me and he…smiled. Edward Masen smiled at me, a real smile, with warmth and affection and what looked mysteriously like relief.

I checked behind me, making sure no attractive co-ed had pulled up a chair back there, explaining Edward's reaction, but just like at the coffee shop, there was no one there. I heard him laugh as I turned back in time to see him maneuvering down the side aisle, effectively pinning me in as there was a computer cart at the front of the class, pushed against the wall and blocking the aisle on the opposite side. I could of course dash madly through the obstacle course of seats with attached desks and people occupying many of them, with bookbags and outerwear as obstacles galore. But I didn't really consider that option seriously, and before I had any more time to reflect, he was pulling the seat to the left of me closer—touching close—and sitting down in it.

My body froze, my mind froze, my eyes stayed riveted on my open notebook, but nonetheless I managed to hear him greet me matter-of-factly, as if we attended introductory calculus together every day and I hadn't just moved out of his cousin's apartment based on his criticism of my work schedule. "Good morning, Isabella," he said cheerfully. "Are we staying for this class, or are we going home to get you the rest you need? I'd much prefer the latter."

Finally, my body moved, a slow-motion head turning and jaw dropping as I checked to make sure there was really a physical manifestation of Edward Masen in the seat next to mine. Yes, he was there, and I didn't think even my desperate sub-conscious could have come up with this on its own, so I started trying to think of a response. It was difficult, with the way he had framed it, and I think he knew that, and had done it on purpose.

This suspicion was confirmed when he leaned into my space and said, in an undertone, "This may well be the last choice I allow you for the foreseeable future, so make the most of it."

All thoughts of a response fled as I stared at that man and wondered if he could possibly have any idea what he was taking on, by issuing my needy self such a challenge. Then all joy and hope fled too as I realized how quickly, and how thoroughly, I would make him regret his kindness to me.

I was no cheerful and obedient Alice Cullen. I was scared, mistrustful, and endlessly in pain, and I could only respond to such an overture with challenge, to bring out into the daylight as quickly as possible the inevitable limits on his caring for me, and the necessarily reasonable boundaries of the relationship he had to offer. I regretted it more than I could say, not just for the looming and seemingly gratuitous further death-blows to my self-esteem, but even more for the disappointment and frustration he would suffer.

However, and despite all my inevitable future longings and even actual attempts to reward his kindness to me with rational, good and grateful behavior on my part, there could be no doubt that I, Isabella Marie Swan, would make Edward Masen pay for his unwarranted optimism, and for his incorrect belief that I was a reasonable person capable of living a normal, happy life.

How I hated this knowledge, and how I dreaded Edward's discovery of it: _I am weak; I am wrong; I am bad. _And so very sorry, for all of it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Dear Readers, **

**Well, I have crossed a Fanfiction milestone; I have deleted an anonymous review. Here's why: I presume that most people reading this are capable of identifying what the mainstream, common-sense-based-on-American-culture-and-societal-expectations advice would be to this story's Bella, and that would be a (hopefully less profanity-laden) variant on the deleted review's advice to "grow up," or grow a backbone, or stop being so sensitive, or get over yourself, etc. etc. etc. And there is certainly something to be gained from analysis of such advice, as one decides it may or may not apply to one's own life choices and perceived pain.**

**However, this story aims to present and support a less-common viewpoint, that Bella is exactly right the way she is, and merely needs some practical and emotional support in a form she can recognize and make use of in order to realize her enormous spiritual strength, and the vast reservoir of loving contribution she has to make to the world around her. **

**Now that doesn't mean I don't think it appropriate for opposing viewpoints to register their comments in reviews, and I didn't delete the one in question without serious reflection. But I would ask that someone wishing to attack the story's basic premise, or its characters, give at least a basic outline of why they feel such an attack is warranted, and that he or she avoid profanity and unnecessary aggression in the expression of their opinion. **

**This request is for two reasons: 1) common courtesy and maintaining a feel of mutual respect even when our opinions and beliefs differ, and 2) protection of vulnerable readers who do identify strongly with the characters of this story—especially Bella—and, in my opinion, deserve a safe space for exploration of this emotional connection, and its implications for their own (very real, and possibly very painful) lives. **

**If the person who has had their review removed wishes to express their opinion about that fact, or to re-state their derogatory opinion, in the same angry intensity and rather vulgar manner, I encourage them to Personal Message me. If, for whatever emotional or psychological reason in your own life and constructed reality, you need to be angry about this story, I will give you the same safe space to express yourself as I am maintaining for the readers who like and connect with it. I just ask that you switch to a private forum for that expression, for the sake of other readers and the community at large, although I will acknowledge the existence of your objections in the manner I am doing presently as homage to the dignity of your opinion and emotional position in life, and to editorial integrity. **

**Or, tone your response down a bit and eliminate the profanity, and I'll let it speak for itself. **

**To close, let me offer my suggested rewrite of the deleted review: "I am extremely offended by the characterization of Bella in this story. She is simply immature, and blaming Edward for her problems." Fair enough. I would appreciate some additional explanation for the last bit, however, because although I understand the "immature" label (a later story I have planned and partly written examines the concept of being emotionally age-regressed, which factors in some BDSM thinking and which I am growing to see more validity to as offensive as I found the idea myself when first introduced to it), I fail to see how she is blaming Edward for her suffering. She seems to me to be blaming herself—although if you're suggesting that how we treat ourselves is how we treat others, I can very much agree with that, and so there's a powerful truth underlying your comment, that shame is poisonous directed at ourselves the same way blame and hatred is poisonous directed at others. **

**But somehow, I get the impression that you meant a more direct connection. Which either means that you are reading into Bella a truly pathological (ah, listen to me judge, who's to say what is truly pathological?) degree of dishonesty in inner expression, such that her despair is really rage directed at Edward, but she isn't brave enough or honest enough to express that so directs it at herself instead, or your understanding of her words and actions are somehow fundamentally different from my own. **

**I would love to hear more about this, for the sake of my own emotional development, and growth as a writer. I can say already that I agree that she has anger towards Edward, and indeed the next couple of chapters have her getting quite frustrated indeed with his actions towards her-although I tend to believe it is just anger and frustration for the impossible psychological bind his unasked-for (by her) actions put her in, and I don't think the existence of her anger in any way discounts the truth and integrity, and even beauty, of her suffering, and that is where we will have to agree to disagree.**

**Now I have a favor to ask: do any of you know the title or author of an older and very sweet fanfic in which Bella, who loves to bake and garden, lives in Charlie's house after his death, making her living writing from home, and puzzles over the new tenant in the blue rental house across the street? Turns out it's Edward, of course, come to live in the house he owns, and in between fixing the windows and re-painting it, he welcomes hesitant Bella into his life of drums (his hobby—collecting and playing) and practicing medicine internationally in some variant of Doctors Without Borders. There is a fabulous happy ending, which I won't give away in case it's still available on-line and someone else wants to read it too…and if you know the title or author, I'd be grateful if you'd message me with them—or post them in a review here for everyone's benefit.**

**Meanwhile, let me tell you that if you haven't tried the books co-written by Jennifer Crusie and Bob Mayer (I've read ****Agnes and the Hitman**** and ****Don't Look Down**** so far), you are missing out! Sharp, witty writing with laugh-out-loud moments; interesting characters portrayed humanely, with a reverence even for the bad guys destined to be eaten by alligators; strong male leads with caretaking tendencies; an appreciation for the beauty of plus-sized and middle-aged women; and happy endings guaranteed—what's not to like? I sometimes enjoy reading Jennifer Crusie on her own too, especially ****Welcome to Temptation**** and ****Faking It**** (read them in that order). But I'd skip ****Crazy for You****, which was terribly mean to the ex-boyfriend pseudo-villain—I had to recycle that one, it made me so mad. **

**Finally, if you're looking for a cathartic movie, try ****_Dirty Girl_****. It's a cinematic hug for anyone with Daddy issues or who goes through life being not quite right, and reminded of it on a daily basis. It's funny and uplifting—but also expect a good cry. And maybe don't watch it when you're depressed already, as its happy ending is qualified by the recognition that life is hard, and tends to hurt. A lot. But hey, that's validating, right?**

**Love to you all, from this hanging-on-by-her-fingernails [Hear that sound? They're slipping, slipping…] crazy lady—and know that if I can love (and forgive) myself with all my fears and failings, you can love (and forgive) yourself too.**

**xoxo liza**

**p.s. My soon-to-be ex-husband left this morning for work, and he won't be coming back tonight—he'll be going to his new house, separate from mine (and goodness knows, I can't manage this house for long all on my own). It's surprising to me how much this hurts, though I suppose it shouldn't be. I'm not sure if it's the fear of my own worst-case scenario coming true, or the shock and shame of the rejection, or the pain of the loss of this relationship that, for better or worse, I made the cornerstone of my life and projected future…and of the person, imperfect as he is (and I am), that I love. It's all of this, I suppose, and more, and this is why I write fanfiction: to give myself, for the time that I am in this other world, the comforting pleasure of vicariously experiencing through Bella the warmth and safety and joy of being loved and valued exactly as she is, because of who she is—not in spite of it. **

**I share all this with you not for sympathy, but for the comfort of knowing I'm being honest and maybe a little brave in the moment, offering the worst of my pain up to the universe in the hope that someone else who suffers will see it and feel just a tiny bit better, knowing they are not alone, or knowing that someone else's life is even more f'd up than theirs. I also know that there are many, many, many (including maybe you) who hurt more over more grievous injuries than mine, and though that doesn't make me feel better, it does (sometimes) help me avoid the worst pitfalls of self-pity, and the tendency to wallow. **

**So if you're hurting today, for whatever reason, let's hurt together. And if you're well and happy, try to hang on to that, and maybe someday the rest of us will join you there and we can be happy together too.**

**Thanks for reading, and sending my loving best wishes your way,**

**liza**

**Oops! Almost forgot to send some grateful love Stephenie Meyers' way too! We all know that Twilight belongs to her in a legal sense, but she's let us all own it together in a spiritual one, and for that I can never thank her enough…what a lovely human being she must be.**

**_And now, out of liza's head and into Edward's…and a big sigh of relief from all of us..._**

**xXxXxX**

I nearly flew out of the girls' apartment in pursuit of Isabella after Jasper's confession. It was too obvious the connections my naïve and over-emotional girl would have drawn between his emergency quarters and her need for a hideaway…from me. She wouldn't even admit to herself, I guessed, that I was the one she was running from. But it gave me great pleasure, in the midst of all my worry for her safety and anger at my own stupidity in letting her out of my sight, to know how strongly I affected her.

Of course, I paused long enough for Jasper to exit too, holding the copy of Isabella's class schedule that Alice had shoved in his hand from its usual location on the refrigerator door, and then to lock the door behind us after a quick peck on Alice's cheek and an admonition to "Call me the second you hear from her, and find out where she is."

But I didn't really expect Isabella to be calling. No, she'd be waiting somewhere for me to flush her out, to prove my ability to take care of her no matter how difficult she made it. Lord, I love that girl!

So I was nearing ecstasy, despite my simultaneous worry and frustration, as I took the stairs down to the parking lot two at a time. Jasper wasn't far behind me, though propelled more by guilt and brotherly concern.

When we reached the bottom I opened the fire door and waved my arm through it, saying to Jasper, "You lead."

He looked surprised—smart man has figured out I like to be in control—but since he knew where we were going and I didn't, it only made sense for him to be the one behind the wheel.

I started to re-evaluate the sense of that, however, when I saw what his "wheel" looked like: a beat-up, ancient red Datsun. I don't think they've even made that car for decades. I paused at the passenger door and looked over to Jasper, who was unlocking the driver's side, asking, "This car going to get us where we need to go?"

He laughed; one more point in Jasper's favor is that he doesn't offend easily. "Well, it's not as pretty as your Volvo, man, but she works just fine. Yes, we'll get there."

Feeling slightly reassured, I folded myself into the likely death trap.

Jasper wasted no time in conversation, but wove his way through the morning rush-hour traffic with confidence and certainty. And a fair amount of aggression. I approved.

Meanwhile, I was constantly turning my head, searching for any petite brunettes out on the street and checking for any resemblance to my Isabella. I noted a large parking lot for a grocery store on the edge of the University district, and made a note to myself to drive through it again after checking Jasper's motel. It was just the sort of place I could imagine her parking that ridiculous truck and trying to blend in.

As we passed out of the University district and entered a definitely more industrial (and down-at-the-heels industrial at that) neighborhood, I started to get nervous. Under the freeway and past some chain link fencing with abandoned warehouses, and I was downright scared—not for myself, of course, but for Isabella. _My_ Bella.

"Where is this place?" I asked, the tension evident in my voice.

But just then Jasper slowed, and I could see just where "this place" was as he turned into the seediest-looking motel parking lot I've seen outside of Las Vegas.

It was clean enough; no peeling paint, the "Motel" sign didn't have any broken lights, the roof was in good repair. And yet it was clearly not a place in the Triple-A guidebook. Maybe it was the bars over the office windows. Maybe it was the "No Loitering" signs in the parking lot. Maybe it was the individual lights-that might as well have been red-over the motel room doors. Definitely it was the industrial backdrop: no tourist in their right mind would want to stay nestled in between a factory, which at least had some signs of life, and what looked to be another abandoned warehouse.

Jasper parked the car in one of the many vacant spots, right next to Bella's truck. Then he turned to me and said, "Sorry."

I looked at him, guilt and genuine remorse in his eyes, and replied, "Not your fault, Jasper. It's mine. I left her alone and to her own devices. I just had no idea what she would be capable of." Pausing, I turned my head again, searching one last time in the landscape for her slight form. "Now let's go get her back," I said, determinedly, before exiting the Datsun and heading for the office.

I was heartened by the fact that she couldn't have been here more than an hour or so; surely even Isabella Swan needed longer than that to get into trouble on an early weekday morning.

But when I saw the reaction of the man behind the counter to my inquiring after her, I re-thought that assumption.

"Who the hell are you, and what do you think you want with her?"

I looked sideways towards Jasper, and not just to evade the heavy antagonism of this burly behemoth of a man; I was hoping Jasper might have some sway given his former paying relationship there. Then I had the horrible thought: maybe Jasper had snuck out without paying his tab, and that's why the front-desk guy was pissed.

I was reassured to hear Jasper drawing the angry Samson's attention away from me. "Hey, George, it's me—Jasper Whitlock? This is Edward Masen. We're…friends of Isabella's. Well, I'm her friend, and he's more like her, um, boyfriend, I guess, right Edward?"

I stared at Jasper, speechless for a moment. Of _course_ I was her boyfriend. What did he think I was?

But then I came to the sour and highly-uncomfortable realization that I hadn't really established that relationship in any sort of spoken way with Isabella herself… and then I hated myself a little bit more for my callous treatment of her. If even Jasper, a world-wise and intelligent adult, was uncertain about my intended identity in Isabella's life, how could I have expected an inexperienced and self-deprecating innocent to figure it out? I almost growled in rage at my own stupidity, but managed to redirect it into spitting out "Yes, I am. Or I would be if she'd stay in one place for more than three hours at a time."

The behemoth—George—narrowed his eyes at me further. Hard to believe he could still see, but I was certain he wasn't stupid enough to give me any advantage in case of a physical fight, so I presumed he was indeed still studying me closely from underneath those angry lowered brows. "Why is she running away from you?"

Instantly, George went from enemy to ally. Not only was he protecting Isabella in a superb imitation of an Alaskan grizzly, but he understood her with a clarity rivaling mine. Maybe, if I was honest with myself, exceeding mine, because it had taken her disappearance to clue me in whereas he read her accurately within an hour of making her acquaintance. I swallowed my pride and admitted this. "You figured her out fast." Then I answered his question with, "And I don't know, exactly."

For the first time since we'd entered his office, the man backed down a little. "You're going to have to do better than that," he said, calmly.

I nodded. He was right. I would have to do a lot better than that if I was to be to Isabella Swan what I wanted to be; to give her the life she deserved.

"She's afraid of me, but not because I hurt her. She's afraid of my affection." I nodded again after saying this, realizing how true it was.

The big man, George, he saw it was true too. "Who let her get that way?" he asked, clearly looking for fault.

I could get on board for that hunting trip. I wanted to know that too. So I nodded my head yet again, deeply, as I responded, "Important question, but I don't know the answer yet." Then I kept my eyes leveled at him, my gaze steady and conveying the lack of guilt I had in this aspect of Isabella's behavior, as I stated, "I will find out, though."

George stared at me a moment longer, testing me. Then, apparently satisfied with what he found, he said, "How'd she come to be driving in here, on her own?" thus starting a new round of loaded inquiry and well-earned censure. Of me, this time.

But Jasper beat me to answering the question, saying: "I'm afraid that's on me, George. I told our Bella a few days back about how you came to my rescue this fall, and when she freaked out this morning, I guess she thought she'd try to follow suit. We're just learning, here; none of us have known her more than a month or two, and Edward and I, well we just have days in on our acquaintance so far."

"Who's 'us'?"

"My girlfriend, Alice, is Bella's roommate."

George nodded, as if this all made perfect sense. "The girls have a spat?"

"No, they're good friends; neither one of them would hurt the other like that."

"So what happened?"

I sighed. "That's where I come in. I dragged her home from work last night, after confiscating her coffee and putting her on notice that I'd be monitoring her well-being whether she liked it or not, and then I left her in her apartment all alone. Well, my sister was there, but she was sleeping."

"That was pretty stupid, boy."

"Yes, it was. I don't make the same mistake twice though."

"What are you planning on doing when you find her?"

I bit my lip, hard, to bite back the words _Giving her a good spanking,_ although I must not have hidden the hungry anticipation that thought brought throughout my body because George then smiled—the bastard—and laughed.

"Personal question. Sorry about that."

Shrugging my shoulders, unable to be angry at the man keeping Isabella safe when she needed it, I smiled back. "I'm just glad she stumbled into you instead of someone dangerous."

George stopped laughing at that, and moved in towards me, as intense as he'd been at any point in our tense dialogue. "But she did that too," he said with serious conviction. "You need to make sure she never comes back here alone; or better yet, never comes back here. And not just here, but anywhere questionable in Seattle. Someone very bad got a line on her; they won't follow her to white-bread America, but they will be on the look-out for her in the near future. And if she's not in my arms' reach, I won't be able to stop them. You understand me?"

I did. In a cold line from spine to stomach, I understood exactly what he meant, and I was horrified at how close I'd come to losing her, and to losing her in such an unspeakably awful way. _Dear Lord, I am an arrogant asshole, I know this, but please let me be an arrogant asshole with enough sense to manage Isabella more safely in the future._

"All right, then," George continued, "I'm glad to see you comprehend the seriousness of the situation. Now what do you want to do about it?"

"Is she in a room?"

"No, I watched her get on a bus heading to campus. She's to come back here before dark tonight. I have a friend on-call to meet her at the bus stop."

I nodded, taking this in, thinking. So she was back on campus for classes. That made sense, and meant I should be able to track her down there well before it was time for her to return here, courtesy of the course schedule we had taken off the fridge.

"Did she leave belongings here?" I asked, trying to think the situation all the way through before making my next move.

George tipped his head to the side, saying "Yep. Hers is the first room here, next to the office, but she didn't have time to unpack. I just dropped some bags from her truck in there for her after she left on the bus."

I was relieved to see a sensible plan falling into place. "Great. We'll take those now, then, and go pick her up from campus. I promise I won't be letting her out of my sight, but maybe I could give you my cell number, and if she ever shows back up here, you'd call and let me know?"

"Yeah, that works. But if you ever let that sweet girl out and about in dangerous places again, you're going to have to work a whole lot harder than this to convince me to let you have her back." George's tone was not humorous, nor was his expression.

I responded with the same seriousness, "Fair enough." It wouldn't be an issue, and he was right: if I couldn't keep Isabella safe from her own bad judgment and dramatic impulses, I didn't deserve to keep her. I couldn't help the smile that sprang up as I started to think of the carte blanche this situation would give my more possessive and domineering impulses. The "tight leash" might be more than metaphorical.

I moved out of the way as George lifted a section of the counter and came out from behind his desk, locking the front door's deadbolt with a key, then turned and walked back behind the counter, waving us through to follow him. We trooped along into an inner office that was much more homey, with flowering plants and a TV playing the morning news, then approached a door in the side wall that George unlocked with another key. As he swung it open, I got a view of a tired old suitcase and a black duffel bag sitting on a made-up bed.

I didn't recognize them exactly, having never seen her luggage before, but they looked like Isabella somehow…beat-up and misused but still very willing to be functional. And maybe able to look new and shiny again with a lot of TLC. As I approached the bed to pick them up, I cast a searching glance around the room, checking for anything else that might be hers. Seeing nothing else, I hoisted the duffel; Jasper already had the suitcase in his hands.

Then I turned to face George, watching us closely from the doorway. "What do I owe you?" I asked, trying to sound confident rather than embarrassed.

He shook his head at me, his expression grim. "Just take better care of her from now on."

I nodded once more. "I promise." And in that moment I was promising much more than that to Isabella, and to me.

Jasper and I walked out of the door and back towards the main office while George locked up behind us. Once we were on the customer side of the counter again, I set the duffel down and looked for something to write my cell number on. I grabbed a brochure sitting in a plastic holder on the counter, and wrote the number down, then passed it over to George's open hand.

He looked at it once, then folded it up and put it in his pocket. Looking at me, he asked, "What do you want to do about her truck? You have the keys?"

I had forgotten all about the truck. "No," I said slowly while I was thinking through what to do next, "I don't have the keys…" Then inspiration struck and I asked, "Would you have it towed for us, please?"

Jasper cleared his throat next to me, and George and I both turned to look at him. "Um, Edward?"

"Yes?"

"She'll have to pay quite a large sum to get it out of the impound lot," he said, looking at me meaningfully.

I knew a moment's gratitude for not having the same financial constraints as Jasper has struggled under, but couldn't afford to spare his pride by pretending that anything to do with money would ever influence my best efforts to protect those I care about. "No, she won't," I assured him easily. "_I'll_ be the one retrieving it." As I thought about that ancient vehicle in which even the seatbelts weren't standard issue, let alone airbags, I shuddered and added, "And then selling it for scrap. I can't stand the thought of her driving in that thing."

Jasper just stared at me, obviously not understanding my logic at all. "Then why don't you just leave it here? I'm glad to drive you by later, after you get the keys—"

"Jasper," I interrupted, "I don't want her to have easy access to transportation if she manages to get back here before we find her. It would just make tracking her down more difficult, and more dangerous for her." I paused before adding as I thought out loud, "Besides, it's good psychological closure."

Jasper blinked at me, open-mouthed for a moment. Then he shook his head and said with humor, "Remind me never to piss you off, Edward."

I laughed as I turned back to get George's agreement with my plan, which was easily given with a nod. "I'll call right away," he assured me. Then he laughed too, saying, "They'll have to bring the semi for that tow."

Grinning at my newfound colleague in cornering Isabella in order to make her mine, I said, "That they will. Well, we should be heading out now—we have an Isabella to track. Thank you very much," and I stuck my hand out towards George.

"It was my pleasure. Don't forget what I said; there won't be a second chance if she wanders off down dark alleys alone again." As he reminded me of this, he gripped my hand so hard my fingers hurt.

I took it like a man, willing the tears to stay out of my eyes, and promised, "I won't forget. She won't be left alone again for a second, if I have anything to say about it."

"Make sure that you do. Have something to say about it."

"Yes, I will."

"All right then. Good luck."

Jasper chimed in with a "Thanks, George; we really appreciate it," as I turned towards the door and headed out, my mind going quickly to my new mission of catching Isabella on campus. I studied the schedule I had taken earlier from Jasper, and saw that her first class started in twenty-five minutes in the basement of the Undergraduate Math & Science building.

I communicated this to Jasper after we had both climbed back into the Datsun, having stowed Isabella's bags in the trunk. Jasper said, "All right, then, Montlake Avenue Commuter Lot it is," and pulled back into traffic, heavier than before, returning to campus.

We were half-way to the undergraduate lot on the east side of campus, the parking area nearest Isabella's first class, when Jasper cleared his throat while we were stopped at a red light.

But he didn't say anything, and avoided my eyes. So I asked, a little brusquely, "Yes? What did you want to say?"

I was bracing myself for some form of criticism, either of my towing her truck, or of my aggressive pursuit of Isabella generally. If I'd stopped to think about it, I would have realized that wasn't a particularly logical assumption, given how thorough and how willing he had been in helping me so far.

Instead, what he came out with was a hesitant, almost shy question: "Is there something wrong with her?"

Blinking dumbly, I said back, "With who?"

He laughed. Then, while pulling out into the intersection as the light had turned green, said, "Bella, of course. Who else would I be talking about?"

I sighed. He had a point. I just couldn't conceive of there being anything at all _wrong_ with Isabella, and I told him so. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with that girl, and a whole lot right about her," I said with conviction.

Jasper turned to look at me. "I'm serious," he said, less hesitantly this time.

I stared at him until his eyes returned to the road and he flushed, just a little. "I'm serious too," I said, my tone underscoring my words.

Then I looked away and thought some more about his question. I knew I meant what I'd just said, but I could understand why Jasper would want to know what was wrong with her. Indeed, as I thought about all the other possible angles and answers to his question, including physically (she's underweight and exhausted); emotionally (she's under chronic stress, terrified and ashamed); psychologically (she appears to have a remarkably brittle self-concept, with little visible ego strength for someone as high-achieving as she has been so far); not to mention practically (she tried to make herself homeless and is demonstrably unable to keep up the unrealistic regimen of work and classes she has set out for herself), I realized how much was very wrong with her, and her situation.

Yet I knew still my first answer was best, and with great clarity I spelled it out for both of us. First I repeated, "No. There's nothing wrong with her." Then I explained, "She just needs someone to take care of her; that's all."

There was silence as Jasper finished navigating into the rapidly-filling commuter lot, and parked the car as close as he could get to the stairs up to campus. Turning off the engine, he turned and looked at me again. "You really think you can fix her that easily; make everything all right?"

I knew this wasn't an idle question. Jasper was a man of honor, and he was vetting me on my intentions, and my trustworthiness towards this vulnerable girl he was helping me hunt down and capture. I owed him the truth.

"I am sure of it. Because I have never wanted anything, or anyone, the way I want her."

"But what if you change your mind?"

"Masens don't change our minds; we just refine our techniques."

Jasper snorted at this, shaking his head as he started to exit the car. But I recognized some admiration mixed in with his incredulity and sarcasm, so I left it at that and got out of the car too, quickly moving back into the hunt.

Jasper was right behind me as I flew up the steps, and moved just short of running towards Isabella's classroom building. I slowed as I approached the entrance, and skirted around to position myself behind some landscaping, the entrance visible but my own position blocked from view.

I was planning on simply waiting there until she appeared, then pouncing on her from behind and strong-arming her off-campus. It would be better if Jasper were willing to provide the transportation for our return trip to the apartment building, but I was perfectly willing to call a cab if he had other places to be. I started to tell him this, sensing without looking away from the target area that he was standing just behind me, but stopped as I heard him speaking first.

"Edward, what if she sees you and runs?"

Hmm. That was actually a good question. I doubted she'd see me behind the tree I was using as a shield, especially with the bushes on either side, but once I started moving towards her there would be a soccer field's worth of empty grass and sidewalk between me and her—and I had no doubt she would sense my approach. My best hope was that she would freeze in place until I was close enough to grab her, but anything else was sure to draw attention, and even might result in the unacceptable possibility of her getting away from me.

"Shit," I summarized, with emphasis.

I was already backing away from my hiding spot, determined to find someplace closer to the entrance, when Jasper said, "Why don't we pincer her?"

"What?" I had no idea what he was talking about, and the images his suggestion brought to mind were disturbing at best.

Luckily, I didn't have to engage in immediate and total re-evaluation of Jasper Whitlock's character because he clarified: "It's military strategy, man. Surround her from two sides—we'd be stupid not to make use of all of our advantages here, and that means not just size but number. I'd suggest we call Alice in to act as a decoy, but I don't think we have the time—"

I interrupted him, grateful that in addition to all his other admirable qualities, Jasper Whitlock was apparently an able military strategist. I made a note not to play him in chess as I said, "Great. Tell me what to do."

Jasper looked back at me, just a little less surprised than when I let him drive earlier, so I reminded him of my priorities. "You thought of a better plan, faster than me; I was going to just spring on her. You're better at this, so you tell me what to do. Just don't fuck up."

Jasper raised his eyebrows at the profanity, asking "So is cussing not a sin when you're out of Allie's earshot?"

I said curtly, "Hell, yes; you should hear Carlisle on our fishing trips—he swears a blue streak. Now tell me what to do!"

Jasper smiled, then got down to business. "You go into the building, and find her room. Position yourself past the room's entrance, if possible, so that you can see her go in but are not standing between where she'll enter the hallway and the classroom. Watch out for the ladies' rooms too; you don't want her to see you if she heads in there first, unless you can corner her there."

I nodded; this made sense. He continued: "I'll monitor her progress towards the building, blending in to the crowd. When I see her go in the doors, I'll text you. I'll stay outside the building and monitor the exits in case she sees you and spooks. Text me if you need back-up in the building."

"Best way to get her out of the classroom?" I didn't bother with niceties; this plan was good, but it needed all the lead time advantage we had remaining.

Jasper's brows furrowed a bit; then he said "Depends on layout. If you're lucky enough to only have one point of access, then wait for her to go in and follow her in yourself. As long as you stay between her and the access point, she'll be trapped."

"And if there's more than one doorway?"

"You'd be better off neutralizing her before she gets into the classroom; don't forget to look at the window situation too."

"You think she'll try to go out a window?"

He paused a moment, looking thoughtful, then said, "She seems kind of desperate to me. You'd be surprised what people are capable of when they feel trapped."

I stared at him a moment. I had to ask. "And you know this how?"

Jasper shrugged, and answered, "I grew up poor in small towns in rural Washington, Montana and Texas. I've seen a lot of g*damn desperate people doing stupid shit."

I laughed; "Way to get into the spirit of the moment," I said, ribbing him for the profanity. I hadn't heard him stray off-color once since I'd met him in the hallway outside the girls' door.

He laughed back. "I have to say, it feels good."

Jasper started moving away then, towards the main drag where Isabella's bus would stop. "Better get in there and figure out your strategy," he said to me, gesturing towards the Math & Science Building with his head.

He didn't need to tell me twice. I moved off quickly, pausing only to say loudly, "Thanks, Jasper," to his retreating back.

Jasper paused and looked over his shoulder towards me, smiling and saying "You're welcome, man. I'd do anything for Alice, and I like your Bella too," before turning back around and jogging off towards the street.

A huge anticipatory smile on my own face, I headed towards the classroom building to design my Isabella-trap.

It wasn't five minutes before my phone buzzed with a text from Jasper announcing he'd seen her. Then another arrived, two minutes later, saying she was in the building. I waited, as nervous as I've ever been in case I was going to screw it up, and high on the anticipation of confronting her because I was so determined _not_ to screw it up, leaning against a soda machine at the poorly-lit end of the basement hallway where her class was located.

I'd already been in to case out the classroom, and it was a perfect set-up. Only one door, no windows, and only one easily-accessible pathway down the classroom's side. I was confident she wouldn't fight me in front of people, so once I was within touching distance of her, she was mine.

I hadn't yet decided whether I'd let her attend this class or not; her day was pretty packed and I didn't like the idea of allowing her to continue through it, as if it was just another day and she was just another girl and I wasn't going to be forcing her to take better care of herself, whether she liked it or not. Scratch that. As if I wasn't going to be taking better care of her _myself_, whether she liked it or not. A vague sense of apprehension flitted across my thoughts as I realized that eventually, Carlisle and Isabella's father would need to weigh in too; but I figured they'd been negligent enough already that I would have no problem getting my way, given the moral high ground I'd be holding.

Any further inner debate about how to approach Isabella's parental figures died out as I caught sight of her just turning the corner, her eyes cast down in front of her. I smoothly swung to the side of the soda machine, as if I'd just gotten my beverage and was heading towards the back staircase, and gave it a few seconds as I tracked her movements on the mirror conveniently placed at the corner of the hallway.

This building had once housed a cafeteria kitchen down here, and I guess when they retrofitted it for classrooms they left some of the necessities for pushing large cartloads of food supplies and dishes in place—there was still a service elevator in this corner too. But musings on the variegated history of old institutional buildings aside, I was convinced that God himself –or herself, I try to hedge my bets—had arranged for that mirror to be where it was, or for Isabella's class to be where it was, or all of the above, so that I could take care of her.

Skeptics would argue that such an attitude indicates a belief in a God who plays favorites, but I don't think that's a necessary conclusion. No, I think God intervenes by making miracles _possible,_ but then it's up to us humans to execute them. And sometimes…sometimes bad things just happen, due to entropy or chaos theory or just the need of the universe to generate the suffering along with the joy, and God can't do anything about it, except cry with us. (That's what makes me think sometimes that God has a feminine nature; a man would never manage such acceptance. Carlisle takes issue with this, believing himself to manage a pretty high level of acceptance himself—but then I just point out how girly he is, and the discussion degenerates from there.)

So, whether thanks to good fortune or God, or more likely both, I was certain as I walked back down the hallway that Isabella was right where I wanted her.

This was true even though I knew her eyes had lighted on me; I could feel it when she saw me. And besides, I had planned it that way. I selfishly wanted the satisfaction of knowing she knew, at some deep level, that I was coming for her, but I also intuitively understood her nature well enough already to predict correctly that she wouldn't allow herself to believe that she saw me.

For as unsubtle as I had been from the moment I set eyes on her, she was remarkably resistant to acting like she knew I was interested. If I hadn't had the security of a particularly strong ego, I would have assumed she wasn't interested herself—but last night's trip home had confirmed some part of her was very interested indeed. My guess was she just couldn't dare to acknowledge her wanting of something—me—she apparently was convinced she couldn't have.

Or so I explained to myself her willingness to march into the classroom as if I wasn't waiting, mere feet away, to pounce on her. Of course, I was also staking a lot on the theory that a large part of her _wanted_ to be pounced on. And seeing as I most definitely wanted to be pouncing, I hustled through the classroom door, my eyes—no, my whole body—zeroing in on her slight form huddling in her newly-claimed seat in the back row.

Oh, how my spirit soared as I watched the recognition bloom on her face, and in her bearing.

First, of course, she had to check behind her to prove to herself that it was indeed her I was staring at, her I was smiling at, her I was after. Never mind that her rational mind knew perfectly well there was only a wall in back of her. Never mind that the odds of my even knowing some other person in this room, let alone having enough motivation to disrupt my day to come see them there, were so slight as to be incalculably small. Never mind that I had told her of my intentions the night before, to care for her the way I cared for Alice. No, despite all that, my precious girl had to double-check, and this made me laugh at her adorable ridiculousness even as part of me cried at her vulnerability, and her criminal lack of self-worth.

As I drew closer to her, trembling in her seat, the rest of the room and the other people in it fell away, and all I saw, and all I thought, and all I knew was Isabella Swan. I didn't have to strategize any more, I just acted with a certainty and a strength that had been building all my life...all the life I'd spent, waiting for her.

XxXxXx

_Postscript from liza: Sorry, sorry, sorry...I know you've been waiting for this update, and here I've managed not to move it one second farther than the last Bella POV (actually, I think Edward's a minute or two behind). I know what happens next, but the process of getting it out, and of getting it out "right," is painfully slow. So I thought I'd give you what I have now, and keep plugging away-Good Governor, I have read far too much BDSM porn, because now I can't use the word "plug" either ("cocks" having been finally eliminated from my writing vocabulary) without getting all giggly. _

_Which makes me think of the laugh I had earlier today when I realized that rating my stuff "Mature," as accurate and appropriate as that may be, is also a gigantic misnomer. Please note that I say that with love and abiding appreciation for all of you who are as emotionally childlike as me. It's not a bad thing; truly it isn't! It's just a difficult and painful and vulnerable thing. But you know this already, don't you?_

_Much love, l_


	7. Chapter 7

**Dear Friends,**

**THANK YOU to all of you who have borne witness to my transition this past fall and winter from married and mildly complacent middle-aged woman to single and scared *#!+-less middle-aged woman… it wasn't pretty, but hopefully it will make my life more useful to others and more meaningful to me in the long run. It certainly has made my life more interesting!**

**I am grateful not just for the amorphous (and perhaps misleading, or at least transitory—but that's okay) sense of companionship that comes from posting private thoughts in a public forum, but for the intelligence, caring and compassion in the words of readers reacting to my stories, and sometimes to my own life's story too. Internet intimacy is a curious beast, but this I know for certain: I am better and stronger today than I would be without you, whoever you are. If there is a way I could help you be better and stronger too, I hope you'll tell me.**

**Meanwhile, I look forward to continued conversation with whomever's willing, and I count as many blessings all those who have taken the time and effort to support me in word and action on here.**

**And to those who have tolerated all the bold type getting in the way of their fanfic reading, I truly am sorry for your inconvenience, even though I can't bring myself to be sorry for posting like this. Just so you know, I do realize I am a big fat weirdo, and am only getting bigger, and fatter, and definitely more weird. But I hope the fact that I'm okay with that, as bizarre as that may seem to you now, may someday echo in your own mind when you're deciding whether to hate yourself or not for failing to meet society's expectations for you, or your own expectations for yourself. As hard as it may be to see it sometimes, there truly is a loving choice awaiting us even in miserable circumstances, even in our worst fears, even in our shame—it's just that sometimes it takes much effort, time and failure to ****_see_**** the choice, let alone to make it. And then to make it again. And again. And again.**

**There's an old Tori Amos song quote in this chapter, one that makes me giggle as I remember how I used to sing it to my roommate when I returned from the shower and was getting ready in the morning (or afternoon—ah, college living). If she didn't know before that she was living with an emotional 4-year-old, she figured it out fast then I'm sure. Luckily, she loved me anyway ;).**

**Much love to you too. I know this chapter is short and painful, but I'm writing Edward's next and I think his will move us along a bit—although we'll probably have to tolerate at least one more chapter of pure Bella misery and self-hatred. Ugh, that is so hard to write! I'll try to post faster, and I'm sorry for the maple syrup quality of my output. You know, lots and lots of sap that takes forever to drain out and then has to be boiled for a long time before ending up with a small quantity of sweet stuff. I hope it's sweet anyway; it would suck to go to all that effort just to find out I'd tapped a rancid tree!**

**On the other hand, I'm sure we'd figure out something else to do with it. Like maybe fixing the leak in my car tire, or creating a new formula for facial wax. (See? I knew there was a reason I'm growing out my mustache besides sheer lack of time and money. It's for research purposes. Maybe I should make a t-shirt: "That's not a mustache-it's a public service. You're welcome.")**

**Speaking of public services, all hail Stephenie Meyer, Queen of Twilight and great benefactor of many an aging, middle-class American woman. May all her facial hair be invisible, and all her sap be syrup of the sweetest kind.**

**XxXxXxX**

It was the strangest feeling, watching Edward Masen descend on me, then against all probability and rational thought cheerfully sitting down next to me and informing me I had to "choose" whether to leave with him right away, or stay for class and leave with him later. If anyone had told me such a thing would happen, that it even _could_ happen, I wouldn't have believed them of course—but then I also would have assumed that if it did happen, as impossible as it seemed, that it would make me really _happy._ Like float off the ground, smile from ear-to-ear ecstatically happy.

So I was surprised to find that when the impossible indeed happened, and Edward Masen tracked me down in math class and cornered me—in a highly public and embarrassing manner—like the big brother, or rather the overprotective cousin, he had promised to be to me, the main feeling that surged through me wasn't happiness, or even relief: it was anger. Followed closely by fear.

I stared up at him, speechless with horror at the public spectacle we were making. That _he_ was making, going to extreme lengths to shape my behavior not because he cared about me, but because of Alice. He was doing this for Alice.

I had felt the stares of other students in class as Edward entered the classroom and slid into the seat next to me, and I could sense their continuing wonder at what someone like him was doing wasting time with someone like me. "I know!" I wanted to scream out to everyone around me. "I know I don't belong with him; I don't belong to him; I don't belong! I didn't ask for this, I swear!"

But instead I remained silent, my mouth hanging slightly open, my eyes rising just enough to take in Edward's expression as he continued to look knowingly at me, a warm smile on his face, his green eyes alight as he waited for my answer. Seeing this made me nauseous, and I quickly dropped my head to stare once more at my open notebook, absolutely speechless. And terrified.

In addition to the fearful variants of further public humiliation and private shame that I anticipated, I became afraid I would be sick right on my desk, the nausea having escalated to swallowing back bile. Thus the urge to flee became more desperate, and I could feel my body teetering on the edge of movement as inside I screamed at myself to J_ust_ move_, you idiot! Just excuse yourself and go to the bathroom and don't come back in! Just get out of there—_

But then the professor walked in, the sharp-tongued, judgmental and extremely frightening professor, and as I vaguely heard Edward's voice saying something I realized I was trapped-at least for the next 50 minutes.

There was some small emotional relief in having the burden of immediate decision-making taken away from me by Prof. Varner's entrance, so in a couple minutes I was able to stop panicking and start work on focusing on my breathing and ignoring everything else. When I had managed to make myself unaware of anything other than the professor in the front of the room and the notebook in front of me, I scribbled like mad, catching up on the whiteboard notes until I was recording as he was writing.

I wasn't actually understanding a thing he said, or a thing I wrote, so it took me a while to realize that he was concluding the day's lesson and starting in on the homework assignment from the day before.

Then, to my horror, I heard with all too much clarity the words, "You there; in the back. Let's see if you did your homework this time," while he stared at me with a gleeful sort of aggression that made we want to cower and cry.

I had forgotten all about Edward in that moment of anxiety, and so jumped in my seat when his voice rose from the seat next to me and—and—and told the professor off! I was even more horrified than I had been before class, so I turned towards Edward, trying to think of something to say, some expressive look to give him, that would communicate my urgent desire for him not to intervene on my behalf, not to draw any more attention to me, _not to get me in trouble! _But he was oblivious to this urgent desire, as well as to my need to melt into the seat and fade away into the background, because after a terse exchange with the professor, he was turning to me and telling me we were leaving the class. In front of everyone. In front of the professor!

I was incredulous, and the only thing that allowed me to move at all was the absolute authority in Edward's voice as he spoke to me, and the unapologetic command in his eyes as he raised his eyebrows at me and inclined his head and ordered me with his very being to get moving. So I obeyed, of course.

I even put my arms in the jacket he had pulled off of the back of my seat and was holding out for me, not thinking until later how much I must have looked like a child, doing what her father told her to. As I realized this, the shame cut though me like a red hot knife, no less because I realized as well how much I wanted to be his child, to be treated like that always.

Well, not his child exactly. But something, something precious and important to him. And something he dearly wanted to keep safe, safe for its own sake—for my sake, not just for the good of his cousin.

But what he had been doing now, in my math class, speaking rudely to my professor; it wasn't safe at all. I watched the professor's face go white with rage before I had to cast my eyes down; I saw the other students' surprised and shocked faces as my eyes fled the front of the classroom, and I sunk further inside in shame and embarrassment, realizing that somehow, this was all my fault. Always, always: all my fault.

Somehow, my ears burning with shame and my eyes burning with the tears I was desperately holding back, I moved my body out of the classroom. Edward's hand was heavy on my lower back all the while, nudging me, guiding me through the maze of desks for what seemed like a silent eternity. Finally, I could see the dark and blessedly anonymous hallway ahead of me as Edward opened the door and shepherded me out.

I found as I crossed the threshold that I was holding my breath, and had been for some time. So as Edward closed the door behind us with a decisive click, my whole body caved on a relieved exhalation.

Next I instinctively crouched to the floor, my arms coming up to cover my head, Edward's hand finally evaded. I was both pleased and panicked to have that commanding hand off of my body.

Likewise I was both angry and ecstatic to feel his hands—both of them—descend on me again, this time closing around my hips as he bent over me, inquiring in a worried tone whether I was alright. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry in response to that question, so I did both, sounding as crazy as I felt in that moment I'm sure.

Edward made shushing sounds, and didn't seem at all surprised or upset by how I was acting—at least not so as I could see it through my tears. He had crouched down next to me, and had one of his comfortingly-large hands running up and down my hunched-over back while the other one came to rest on the back of my head. That seemed a little strange; his hand was heavy, and my neck started to hurt just a bit from the effort of holding up the extra weight.

It was oddly reassuring too, though, and after a moment's panic when he withdrew his hand as my head rose up, I knew relief when his hand returned to my body, this time circling my waist and drawing me, with a firm grip around my hipbone, into his embrace.

His other arm then moved to slide under the backs of my thighs and catch me right behind the knees, as if he were about to pick me up. Panicked by the intimacy of his touch, and by the humiliating-if-also-intoxicating idea of being carried—_on campus_, no less!—as if I were a baby, I rose quickly, pulling entirely away from Edward Masen's body.

In the next heartbeat, he rose too, beating me to picking up the backpack he had carried out of the classroom—_my_ backpack—and slinging it over his shoulder as he said, cheerfully, "All right then, home we go."

I was frozen in place again, but Edward solved that by grabbing me firmly by the elbow as he strode by me, and unceremoniously towing me down the hall. I stumbled after him, having to almost-jog in order to keep up with his long stride. He stopped when he came to the old stone staircase up to the main floor, pausing for me to catch up to him, then transferring my elbow from one hand to another while the arm nearest me wrapped about my waist.

"Easy, now," he said in a quiet, serious tone as he half-lifted me up the first step. I was undone by the intensity of his focus on me, so of course I tripped.

It didn't matter; he just tightened his arm around me and righted me before I had so much as dipped my head. Holding me still on the second step up for a moment, he leaned his cheek down and pressed against the top of my head, saying "Shhhh, take it slowly, sweetheart. I've got you. I'm right here."

Hearing those words now, words of safety the like of which I'd been so desperate to hear for as long as I could remember, even knowing that he didn't really mean them—that they were just kind nothings he was throwing away on the friend of his sister in order to alter my behavior so it better fit the Cullens' lives and expectations—still, having those words wash over me broke down the last resistance of my wounded pride, obliterated the last remnants of my feeble self-respect. I was now absolutely defenseless, standing naked before him (metaphorically-speaking) with nothing to fight him with and nowhere to turn.

As I surrendered, I started to sob. Great, heaving sobs that soon left me blind with tears and deaf from the guttural noises I was making. He said some things; I don't know what. I do remember the tipping feeling as my head fell back when he scooped me up in his arms, cradling me against him the way he had begun in the hallway outside the classroom a short time before.

Now beyond humiliation, my reaction was simply to hide—and since he had me firmly clasped in his arms, it was his body I hid in, and on. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I turned into his chest and buried my face there, tilting my head in order to breathe but making sure to pull my arms tight enough around my face that I couldn't see or hear the world around me. The pulsing of my blood and the heaving of my sobs helped with that too, as did the pounding of Edward's own heart. I didn't think about it then, but I suppose he must have been exerting himself greatly to carry me up the stairs of the building, and then down the outside steps as well and all the way back to Jasper's car.

I didn't know Jasper was anywhere around until Edward was settling me in the front seat of the red car I'd seen Jasper pick Alice up in the week before, when they went for coffee on their first date. It wasn't supposed to have been a date; Alice had sworn they were just studying—they shared a Mass Media & Communications class, and were already excitedly plotting out their midterm project together.

It took me a minute to recognize the car from the inside, but I was helped along when I looked up and saw Jasper smiling gently down at me, concern in his eyes, from the driver's seat. Instantly, the humiliation was back, and my face flamed as my head dropped for the countless time in the past few minutes. Blinking back more tears (my sobs had dissipated with the soothing motion of Edward's gait across campus, paired with the simultaneous movement of one of his hands up and down my back), I managed to stutter, "Hi, Jasper."

He said warmly back, "Hello, Miss Bella," then turned the car engine over and backed out of his parking spot with nothing more being said. I wasn't one hundred percent certain that Edward was in the car, and couldn't gather the courage to turn around and look, though part of me thought it had registered the sound of the backseat door opening and closing a few moments before.

Edward's presence was confirmed one heartbeat later when he said, calmly and cheerfully, "Straight to the girls' apartment, if you would please, Jasper."

"Whatever you say, boss," was Jasper's quick and easy reply.

Edward laughed lightly in the backseat, and that was the end of the conversation. It was a very long ride home, in which I felt every turn and braking and acceleration with an unusual intensity, and in which I kept waiting, breath bated, waiting to see and to hear what would happen next.

Nothing at all happened that I could tell beyond Jasper's careful use of turn signals until he parked the car once more, and turned off the engine. There was a heavy moment then when we all sat quietly, the weight of anticipation bearing down on me and seemingly everyone else in the car too.

It was broken by the loud squeak of the back passenger door opening, making me jump, and then slamming shut, making me jump again.

I looked up at Jasper, who remained curiously unmoving in the front seat, his seat belt off but his body angled towards me rather than starting out his door. "Thank you, Jas-" I began, but was interrupted by the sound of my own door opening.

I turned to see who was there, and was not surprised to come face to face with Edward for the brief moment I could maintain eye contact with him. He laughed, a deep low rumble, as my head dropped _again,_ then reached across me and unbuckled the seat belt he'd fastened earlier. I froze as his hand invaded my space, relaxing a little as it pulled back, returning the buckle carefully to its place beside my head.

Then his hand moved across me again, grabbing me at the hip, and I squeaked. He made no response but started to rub circles against my hip with his thumb.

A few more moments passed before he said, "Isabella. Look at me."

I lifted my eyes briefly but let them drop again quickly. He still rewarded my automatic attempt to do what he asked with a "Good girl," and I moaned, then bit my lip in shame.

My eyes welling with hot tears, Edward leaned in so I could feel his breath on my face and said in the most matter-of-fact tone, "There are two possibilities here, Isabella. One is you get out of the car now and walk up to the apartment with me and climb into bed until lunch. Two is I carry you out of the car now and upstairs to the apartment and put you in bed until lunch. You pick."

Beginning to feel as if I must either start screaming and shoving my way out of the car and run so far away from the situation that Edward Masen could never find me or go stark raving mad, I trembled with the tension of the moment but said nothing, merely biting my lip as I waited for the earth to open up and swallow me or God to lean down from His heaven and say, "Just joking."

Neither happened, although to my speechless wonder Edward did follow through on his implied threat; his promised involvement; his natural consequence to my unwillingness to choose. I knew he was treating me like a recalcitrant toddler again, and I knew I should be insulted, even outraged. Instead, all I could think about was how much it would hurt when he left me, his job done, myself returned to the apartment I was supposed to be living in with his cousin.

There was no doubt but that I would leave again as soon as his back was turned; his actions of the morning only underscored how incompatible I was with Edward and Alice's lifestyle. In his kindness, he was breaking me more completely and thoroughly than disregard and unkindness ever could have managed; in his forceful caretaking he was absolutely ensuring my immediate departure from his sphere of influence, no matter how desperately I longed for exactly what he was doing. In highlighting my need, he had made living without the affection I yearned for impossible—so I had to get out of here and someplace where the difference between what I wanted and what I had any right to expect was not so glaring, and where I would not be so painfully reminded of it on a daily basis.

I thought briefly of the room I had arranged at the motel, feeling relieved it was there for me to run to, and then turned to planning how best to phrase to Charlie my request that he ask the Cullens to leave me alone. It was clear I couldn't manage this situation without Charlie's help; Edward knew where all my classes and jobs were, and even if I could change my entire course schedule, there was no way I could manage to change both my places of employment as well.

Glad to have figured out my next course of action, and having effectively blocked out Edward's progress with me heavy in his arms up to the apartment and down the hallway to my old room, I finally became aware of my surroundings again as Edward set me down in the middle of my bed.

Tolerating his removal of my shoes and jacket, his turning down of the bedcovers and finally his lifting me onto the exposed bottom sheet before tucking the covers around me by pretending I wasn't really there, but was watching a t.v. show in which this was happening, I went rigid as my head turned and my eyes alighted on two items sitting on the floor next to my bed: my duffle bag and my suitcase.

I felt the blood drain from my face and the panic flood my body, and I heard the scream though I don't remember making it; it was more like a disembodied voice than anything I had control over. I heard other voices afterwards, but I refused to register them; I felt hands upon my body, but I refused to acknowledge they were there.

Finally, I did the only thing left I could think of: I closed my eyes, lay down, and went to sleep.


End file.
